


Black Coffee

by coolbyrne



Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27596810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: The paths of a newspaper reporter and a private detective cross paths in this crime noir homage set in the 1950s. Slibbs
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs/Jacqueline "Jack" Sloane
Comments: 147
Kudos: 205





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot to unpack here, as they say. Too much for author's notes, to be honest. Just know I did a LOT of research on this one, so venues, prices and other things that look and sound related to the early/mid-1950s is accurate. Though I don't specifically give a date in the story, I've always sort of had it in my head as 1953. If you're interested in prices and minimum wage (.75/hr) for this time period, this is a great site: https://libraryguides.missouri.edu/pricesandwages/1950-1959

The rain hadn’t let up in 3 days, the sky only changing shades of grey, and he grumbled as his galoshes splashed in the puddle off the curb. 

“Another week, huh, Mr. Gibbs?” the young newsie said from underneath his covered stand.

“Yep,” was the simple reply along with the dime for the paper and a pack of gum.

“Still tryin’ to quit smokin’?”

The question got the same response, and Gibbs pulled up his coat collar before venturing out from under the canopy and into the rain again. Such was the routine -rain or no- that Donny didn’t even notice the white tape across Gibbs’ nose. Or maybe he did and was just too polite to say. Gibbs subconsciously reached up to touch the bandage. ‘Freakin’ Barbaro goons,’ one half of his brain muttered. The other half helpfully reminded him that if he hadn’t stuck his nose into the business of the couple at the end of the bar Saturday night, his nose wouldn’t have gotten into the business end of Freddie Barbaro’s temper. The jog up the five flights of stairs to his office wasn't sympathetic to his plight, each step reminding him that maybe next time, he should keep it to himself. 

He reached for his keys, then saw the shadow on the other side of the window that had “L. Jethro Gibbs, Private Detective” stenciled across the frosted pane. Slipping off his coat and giving it a shake in the hallway, he turned the brass handle and stepped inside. 

“Morning, Gibbs.” The young girl was getting the percolator ready for his morning coffee, but when she turned around, her hand came to her mouth. “Oh my God! What happened to your face?”

He hung up his coat and hat and tucked the folded paper under his arm. “Ran into the door.”

“Ran into someone’s fist, you mean! Don’t let Dad see it.”

‘Dad’ was Tobias Fornell, his closest friend and inside man with the suits on Capitol Hill. The young girl was Emily, Tobias' daughter and Gibbs’ to protect from New York’s dirty streets. Which was why he had hired her as his Girl Friday. She wasn’t the best secretary he’d ever had- she had a tendency to stay on the phone too long with whatever boy was the latest thing. But she could make a damn good cup of coffee, and all things considered, that was good enough for him. Right on cue, she handed him a steaming mug and 2 pills. 

“For the nose. And the hangover.”

He nodded for the former and didn’t bother to deny the latter. “Any appointments today?” he asked, taking both offerings.

She shook her head. “No. The only phone calls have been bill collectors. And Mr. Brindlewood said if we don’t pay the rent this month, he’s taking your Winchester.” Holding up her hands, she said, “I’m just telling you what he told me, Gibbs.”

The Winchester above his door had been handed down to him from his father and his father before him. “That ain’t happenin’.”

“Then we better hope we get some business. Paying business.”

He sighed. She wasn’t wrong, but not every New Yorker had a seedy underbelly that needed exposing, and the ones that came to him for that kind of help generally came to him only when they didn’t know where else to go. He had gotten paid so many times with pies and homemade soup that he was surprised he didn’t weigh more than he did. He didn’t bother replying, opting instead to find some refuge from her polite accusation in his smaller attached office. Leaving the door open, he stepped around his desk and fell into the swivel chair with a resounding thud. The pills went down dry and the coffee went down hot and he spread out his newspaper on his desk, waiting for both to kick in. He had just started the sports section when he heard a small commotion. Emily appeared in his doorway seconds later.

“You up for seeing a client?” she asked. There was something in her voice that made him quirk an eyebrow and she nodded vigorously at his curiosity. In a whispered hush, she said, “It’s Jacqueline Sloane.”

His second eyebrow joined his first. Emily had said the name, knowing full well he knew it. Of course he did; he not only had crossed paths with the Post reporter but swords as well. He had lost his last big client because she had broken a political affair days before he had been able to interrogate the mistress. His brows came down into a frown at the memory. 

“What does she want?”

As if summoned by the question, the woman appeared in the doorway.

“I need your help.”

The bitter taste of their last interaction may have left a sourness in his mouth, but he swallowed it down when he saw her. Their sometime rivalry aside, he had always admired the way she carried herself, poised and put-together in the Katharine Hepburn style that many women tried to emulate but few could pull off. Being an unabashed leg man himself, he had to admit there was something in the way she wore the pants that made up for the fact they covered everything he liked. But he quickly brought his thoughts to her harried face. He had seen many expressions in the few encounters they had shared -anger, amusement, determination- but he’d never seen her afraid. Until now.

He glanced at Emily who got the silent signal and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her and quietly leaving them alone. He stood to offer Jacqueline a chair.

“No,” she shook her head, though his soft touch on her shoulder had her sitting.

He took up a place on the edge of his desk. “What happened?” It suddenly occurred to him that the worst might have taken place, and his blue eyes began a determined inspection.

She must have seen it, because she waved it away. “It’s not that. I’m fine. At least, that way.” Her hand touched her forehead with trembling fingers as her brown eyes flitted along the floor as if trying to find a lost bead. “I mean, I’m not fine, but-”

“Jacqueline.”

“Jack,” she corrected. “Jack.”

“Okay. Jack. Why don’t you start from the beginnin’?”

Her laugh was thin. “That’s the problem. I don’t remember the beginning. I got a phone call this morning from my boss, wondering when I was coming into work.” Gibbs waited patiently for her to continue. “I told him if he wanted me to work Saturdays, he’d better be willing to pay me extra. That’s when I found out.”

“It’s Monday.”

“Yeah.”

His fingers reached out to her hairline and she jerked back at the touch. “Just wanna see.”

“I told you,” she persisted, “I’m fine. My head hurts like a mother, but inside. I’m not hurt anywhere else. I checked.”

Reaching back, he pushed the intercom button. “Emily, can ya bring in some coffee for Ms. Sloane?” He looked at the reporter who said, “Sugar” at his silent prompt. “With sugar.”

“So if you can’t start from the beginnin’, why don’t you start from the last thing you remember?”

She covered her eyes with both hands like darkening the theatre of her memory. A deep breath began her story. "I was with some friends. At the Roost. The usual Friday night get-together.” Seeing him scribble in a notepad, she said, “You’ll help?”

Emily stepped in with the coffee and sugar and placed it on his desk. He thanked her with a nod then waited for the door to close again before handing the mug to Jack. He watched in amused horror as she tore the paper off two sugar cubes and dropped them into the hot liquid.

“Good thing the war’s over,” he deadpanned, drawing out the first smile of the visit. “And yeah, I’ll help. You can pay me for tanking my case against Angelo DiRossi.” 

“Please,” she said, regaining a measure of her feistiness, “the mistress was a day away from being fitted with new shoes. You know, the concrete kind. Breaking that story? I probably saved her life.”

“I’ll tell my landlord when he comes for the rent I ain’t got.”

“I can pay you. How much do you charge?”

He had known the minute she had stepped into his office that he would help, just like he knew when anyone else walked through the door. But there was something extra about her that triggered his protective nature even more. Something had happened to make her come to him. Something that had unnerved her so much she didn’t feel she could handle it herself. And he suspected _that_ didn’t happen very often.

“The Roost, huh?” he asked, ignoring her question. ‘The Roost’ was ‘The Royal Roost’ on Broadway and 47th, a hotspot for jazz and fledgling hipsters. 

His disdain for the latter must’ve been written all over his face because she said, “I pay the extra dollar to stay away from the bleachers. And the chicken’s to die for.”

He grinned at her deflection. They _did_ serve fried chicken, but everyone went for the music. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I’ll treat you one day,” she promised, then looked down at her coffee as if suddenly reminded of why she was there. 

He picked up the thread. “So you were at The Roost on Friday night. What time do you normally get there?”

She shrugged. “Around 7? You know the bands don’t hit the stage until 8.”

He didn’t, but he continued. “You were with friends. How many?”

“Two. It’s always Dorothy Neimann and Jill Bennett. I’ve known them for over 20 years. We’ve been going to The Roost every Friday for almost a decade.”

“So you’re not a hipster.”

A soft laugh thanked him for his humour. “No. I was there when Ella played her first show, thank you very much.”

He couldn’t help the admiring nod. “Ella, huh? She playing that night?”

Shaking her head, she replied, “No. Fats Navarro.”

“You got there at 7. Then what?”

“Got our usual table, had a few drinks, waited for the band to come on.”

His eyes followed his pen. “Anything stand out? Any trouble?”

“No.”

“No man approached the table? At least one beautiful woman there, I would think it would attract attention.”

Her head tipped slightly at the compliment. “No more than usual. Marcus is very good at his job.” Seeing his eyebrows encouraging her to continue, she explained, “Marcus Briggs, the doorman. He heads a team whose job is to -how do I say this politely?- keep trouble to a minimum. So yeah, there were 3 or 4 men who came over, but Marcus knows when to kindly ask them to leave.”

Gibbs nodded, privately appreciating the man. “No one he had to be unkindly with?”

“No. We go there every Friday. Most people know us. If we ever had trouble and Marcus wasn’t around, there are literally dozens of other people who would step in.”

He tapped his pen on the notebook. “What time did you leave?”

“Just before 1. I know because we had to convince Rick to sell us a hotdog. He closes his cart at 1.”

He jotted the information down. “Then what? You go home? Go home with someone?” There was no judgment in his question.

“No. I never do.” The blunt honesty of her reply seemed to catch her off-guard because she bent her head, though it did little to cover her embarrassment. “I took a cab home.”

“And where is home?”

“Brooklyn.”

Looking up from his notes, he pressed his lips together appreciatively. “Nice borough. Hell of a trip into the city every day to work, though.”

She shrugged. “I like the subway. You get a real feel of the city and the people. But even I’m not crazy enough to take the subway by myself at 1 in the morning.”

“Okay.” He jerked his chin at her coffee. “You done?”

“Sure. Why?”

Standing, he opened the door and gestured her into the main room. Without questioning the sudden change, she finished off the coffee with one last gulp (that he privately admired) and followed his direction. While he went to the coat rack, she turned to Emily.

“Sorry if I gave you a scare when I came barging in here,” she apologized.

Emily waved away the apology. “You should see the commotion his ex-wives cause when they show up.”

“Plural?”

His glare might have stopped Emily from saying the word out loud, but she held up 3 fingers and nodded sagely. He shook Jack’s coat with an impatient snap. 

“We leavin’ today or what?”

Jack slipped her arms into the offered garment and pulled the collar tight to her neck. “Alright, alright. Hold your horses, Cowboy.”

“Glad to see you back to your normal smartass self, _Jacqueline_.” He threw on his coat and dropped his hat on his head.

“Well, I’ve got New York’s finest private dick on the job, don’t I?” 

She must’ve known he hated the term as much as the use of her full first name annoyed her, because her lips fought the knowing smirk. Caught between her sass and Emily’s barely contained laugh, he glared at them both before yanking open the door.

“Let’s go.”

…..


	2. Chapter 2

…..

“You don’t have a car?” she asked as they stepped out into the drizzle that didn’t seem to end. New Yorkers briskly passed them, oblivious or grumbling on the way to wherever they were going. He had stuck up one hand and used the other to let out a piercing whistle. A yellow taxi weaved through the traffic to pull up to the curb.

“And lose my parkin’ spot?” he asked rhetorically. He held the door and climbed in behind her. “The Roost,” he told the driver. “Broadway and 47th.”

She immediately turned to him. “They’re not open for another 8 hours.”

“Shame,” he replied, his gaze out the side window. “Was lookin’ forward to the chicken.”

She nodded. “Okay, smart guy. I get it. You want to retrace my steps.”

Rather than answer, he asked his own question. “What were you workin’ on?”

She took his re-direction in stride. “Same thing every reporter in the city worth their salt is working on.”

“The East Village Strangler.”

“Hey,” she said, seeing his displeasure at the name, “I didn’t come up with that. And by the time the police came clean on cause of death, it was too late to change it. Besides, ‘East Side Smotherer’ doesn’t have the same ring.”

“You find anything?”

“Nothing concrete. Few chases on a few tips, but nothing I would’ve brought to my editor.”

“Nothing concrete up to Friday night. Maybe you followed up on something Saturday.”

They were interrupted by the cab driver. “The Roost. That’ll be a dime.”

Gibbs looked at Jack. “What’s your address?”

“The Heights.”

“Brooklyn?” the driver asked. “That’s gonna cost ya ‘bout a buck fifty,” he warned.

“She works for the press,” Gibbs told him. “She’s got it covered.”

“Very funny. You know we can both take the subway for less than 2 bits.”

“Yep. But I wanna be back before the year’s out.”

She was about to scold him again for his sarcasm when she realized his angle. “You want to take the same route I should’ve taken Friday. You want to see if it jogs my memory.”

“Yep.” He sat back and covered his eyes with his hat. “Wake me when we get there.”

“Don’t you want to know if I remember something?”

“Tell the driver if you don’t think you can retain it ‘til we get there.”

“And here I was wondering what happened to your nose.”

…..

She suspected he wasn’t really sleeping but chose to pretend to do so to give her time to see if the trip sparked any memory, any recollection without feeling the pressure of an audience. And while she used the time to do just as he intended, she also took a few minutes to take it all in, to take him all in. Because when she was awoken that morning by her impatient but worried editor, everything had unspooled and the first name that had come to mind was Leroy Jethro Gibbs. A bastard by reputation, a good, kind man to those who knew him, and above all else, the most trustworthy man she had the pleasure of butting heads with. She knew he’d be the one to help her put things straight when nothing else made sense. He was slouched in the backseat beside her, his suit functional but not flashy, a charcoal 3-piece number that fit in all the right places. She wondered which wife made him get it tailored before she became an ex. ( _Three!_ ) The overcoat hung open revealing a simple blue tie, one she knew would match the eyes that were under the grey fedora. Though she joked about his nose, she did wonder what had happened, what injustice he felt he needed to right, sacrificing his face to do it.

“You’ve spent more time lookin’ at me than the scenery,” he said from under the hat. “I take it nothin’s ringin’ a bell.”

Her guilty eyes turned to the window. “No. I think the problem is, I’ve taken this route so many times I can’t figure out what was Friday and what was 6 Fridays ago.” To the driver, she said, "Down Hicks, at the end there on the left."

"Sure thing, Dollface."

Gibbs tilted up his chin to see her reaction from under his fedora, and she gave neither men the satisfaction. Instead, she dug into her pocket, pulled out a change purse and had the $1.55 ready by the time the car pulled up in front of the address. Gibbs' grin dropped in place of an admiring whistle. For the brownstone. She smiled before opening her door. 

"Red brick does it for you, huh?"

She knew the question understated the elegance of the 3-storey building, and so did he, but rather than wait for him to answer, she bolted up the stairs, dodging the unrelenting rain and quickly unlocked the front door. He barrelled in right behind her, crowding into the small foyer, rain dripping onto the welcome carpet.

"I'm on the 3rd floor."

She was 5 steps up when the door to the first residence opened.

"Who's there?"

Jack leaned over the bannister and said, "Just me, Gladys."

A woman who could've passed for 100 came closer to the stairs. 

"Oh, Jacqueline!" the neighbour greeted with a smile. "Isn't this weather horrendous?"

"Yes, it is. Just came back to get my umbrella."

Gladys nodded at the wisdom, then turned her attention to Gibbs. "And who's this handsome boy? Look at those eyes. Like Frank Sinatra! Do you know Frank?"

To his credit, he took the woman's verbal barrage in stride. "Not personally, ma'am. But I do know of him."

"Oh! 'Ma'am'. He's so much nicer than that other boy you used to bring by," she said, oblivious to Jack's mortification. "It's so nice to see her with such a nice young man. It's been so long, hasn't it, dear?"

Jack avoided Gibbs' amused patience at the question. "I really should go, Gladys. You know how my boss is if I'm gone too long."

"Oh, just tell him you're on the trail of a hot tip." The way she said the term made it clear she enjoyed TV's newest cop show. Taking in Gibbs' attire, she asked, "Are you a police officer?"

"No, ma'am. Private detective."

Jack saw her eyes light up, and she quickly reached for Gibbs' arm. "Let's go," she told him. "I'll talk to you later, Gladys. I'll bring milk when I come back, okay?"

"Don't worry, dear. I told Fred to bring some home after work."

Jack smiled and tugged Gibbs up the stairs. "I just saved your entire afternoon," she said. "You can thank me later." She slipped the key into the lock and the door swung open.

His admiration of the building on the outside was nothing to what he thought of it on the inside. She watched as his eyes took in the high ceilings and bare wood floors, watched as his fingers brushed over the exposed brick walls. 

"When I said you had it covered, I had no idea."

She smiled. "After Dad's first big fight, he bought Mom a diamond ring. Which she promptly told him to take back and not be stupid. They bought the brownstone instead. I'd never be able to afford this on my wage."

"'Clubberin' Carl Sloane'," Gibbs said. Seeing her surprise, he raised an eyebrow. "Lightweight champion for 2 years. Until he wouldn’t dive in the Sawyer fight and lost the Sicilians a lot of money. Then he somehow found himself with 2 broken hands."

Though she was pleased at his knowledge, it brought up memories she'd rather forget. "I found him on the steps right outside," she remembered. "I almost didn’t recognize him. I was 8." His stormy expression told her everything she needed to know about how he felt. “Anyway.” She took off her coat and draped it over a nearby chair and gestured for him to do the same. “Here we are.”

As he removed his jacket and placed his hat on top, he glanced around the room. “Nothing out of place when you woke up?”

“Not that I could tell.”

He followed her into the kitchen which was just as tidy as the living room. She smiled at his silent approval. “Dad was as meticulous about his house as he was about his boxing. Coffee?”

Gibbs nodded. “You mind if I look around?”

“No, go ahead.”

In the time it took for the pot to percolate, he had done a quick walk through the small but comfortable 2 bedroom home. Everything appeared to be in its right place, nothing seemed outwardly disturbed, no void stood out as apparent. It was all warm and welcoming, nothing giving an indication of how she had lost 2 days in her memory. When he returned to the kitchen, she was pouring the coffee. She placed 2 mugs on the table and sat, silently extending the invitation. 

“Where did you wake up?” he asked, watching her go through her startling sugar routine.

“The bedroom.”

“Were you dressed?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Yes. But not in the clothes I wore on Friday.”

“You know the second floor neighbour?”

She nodded. “Yeah. But he wasn’t home. Hasn’t been in almost a month. I think he’s a Communist. Or a travelling salesman.”

Her sly comparison brought out his grin. “And Gladys? Think she heard anything?”

Jack’s smile faded a fraction. “If she did, she’s not the most reliable witness.” She tapped the spoon against the mug. “Fred? That’s her husband. He died 2 years ago.”

“Who was the other young boy?” 

It took her a moment to follow his change in topic and she laughed at the description applying to him as much as her former flame. “Bruce Allen. Accountant in Yonkers. Ended badly last year.”

“That’s because he was an accountant from Yonkers. With 2 first names. Shoulda been your first clue.”

She looked up into his warm blue eyes and understood how he charmed 3 women into marrying him. Glancing back down into her dark coffee, she admitted, “I was looking for something safe, but I guess that’s just not for me.”

“There’s gotta be somethin’ between a boxer and an accountant,” he said, “but then again, I was married 4 times.”

The numbers didn’t match up and she wondered what the story was behind it. Saving it for another day, she asked, “So what’s the next step now that this one turned out to be a dead end?”

“You’re sure nothing’s missin’, nothing’s outta place?”

“Unless your theory’s right and something happened Saturday, everything’s fine. My notes on the case are still on the table beside the couch. And if I had a break on Saturday, how would I know if anything was missing?”

He nodded at her logic and tossed in another problem. “You woke up in different clothes means you came home Friday but went out Saturday.”

“How do we find out what happened if I can’t remember?”

“We figure out why it happened. That’ll lead us to the what.” 

She watched him offer a pleased hum as he downed the coffee. “I can make you another, if you want.”

Caught out enjoying the drink, he tried to sound gruff, with only a small measure of success. “I’ll need to take a look at your notes. But I need you to think beyond the case. I don’t wanna get caught up thinkin’ this is the only reason someone might wanna hurt you. Hell, I’ve wanted to wring your neck once or twice myself. I can’t be the only one.”

“You might not want to trust any drink I give you in the near future,” she warned, rescinding her offer.

He held out his cup. “I’ll take my chances.”

Warmed by his trust, even if it was meant in jest, she took the mug and turned to the counter. She began pouring the coffee, and it was then she noticed her shaking hand. Quickly putting down the pot, she clenched her hand into a fist, hoping to hide the tremble from blue eyes. She should’ve known better.

“You okay?”

Gripping the counter’s edge, she inhaled deeply, then said, “Yeah.” Even to her ears, it didn’t sound convincing. With more honesty, she said, “I think it’s all just hitting me.” She finished the pour then returned to the table. “This is all very normal, sitting here with a friend, having coffee. Then I remember why you’re here.” She rested her chin on a nervous palm. Her eyes scanned the room until she saw a small packet pushed across the table. The gesture brought a small smile to her face. “How did you know?” she asked, taking the cigarette out. 

“Saw the ashtray in the living room,” he replied, flicking open his Zippo and offering the flame.

The deep inhale wasn’t as clean as the one she took at the counter, but the smoke seemed to settle her better. When she opened her eyes, she found him watching her, and in a rare moment of self-consciousness, she shrugged. “Feel free.” 

He saw her eyes gesture to the cigarettes and he shook his head. “I’m quittin’.”

“But you carry a pack with you?”

“I said I’m quittin’. Didn’t say I quit.”

She nodded at the honesty. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Gum’s alright. Might hafta try toothpicks next.”

Her fingers slapped against his hand across the table. “You know what I mean.”

“Sure.” He watched her inhale again, eyes on the smoke that billowed from her lips before saying, “Think of it like a story you’re followin’. Take yourself outta the equation. Look at the story, not the participants.”

She tapped the ash into her empty cup, contemplating his suggestion. “I can do that,” she agreed. “Treat it like a story instead of thinking of all the things that could’ve happened to me between Friday and this morning.” Another pull on the cigarette punctuated her slight unravelling. 

“I want you to go to work, look into your last 5 big exposés. Give me a list of people who might wanna hurt you. Ask the mailroom to dig up all the letters that have threatened you over the last 12 months. Make sure everything you remember about the Strangler case is in that file.” He jerked his head over his shoulder to the envelope in the living room. “Make sure you haven’t left anything at work.” He downed the coffee and stood.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, following him into the living room where he picked up the file.

He gazed longingly at the cigarette she just extinguished in the ashtray. “Find a place that sells toothpicks.”

…..


	3. Chapter 3

…..

She called him a cab but took the subway, saying she needed some time to let everything settle, to try and get her head on straight. He pushed aside the unexpected disappointment of not sharing her company by getting started on the Strangler file as soon as the cab pulled away. Not that he had any doubts, but going over her notes, meticulous, thorough and neat, only reinforced his opinion of her as a reporter. She was a damned good one. Dates, names and places were listed in chronological order, opinions and hypotheses were legibly printed in the margins, and she had an entire page dedicated to the killer’s motivations, his possible childhood, his likely age and education, right down to what he might do for a living. He had never seen such an approach to examining a criminal. He was still marvelling at her notes when the cab came to a stop outside the diner. Paying the driver, he slipped the file under his coat and made a run for the door.

…..

She got into reporting because she knew she was good at it. She had a knack for sniffing out a story and an innate ability to get people talking. She stayed because she loved it, loved the newsroom and the bustle and the energy that met her the minute she walked in.

"Sloanie! Boss wants ta see ya!"

She waved at the messenger who blew past in a flurry of notes and papers. Others in the newsroom greeted her in a less harried way, with smiles and jokes until she got to the editor's office. Rapping on the glass before entering, she jerked her chin up. 

"Heard you wanted to see me?"

The 50-something lifted his head from the newspaper spread across his desk, the cigarette smoke curling around his cherub face. His brown eyes squinted at her arrival.

"So ya decided to grace us with your presence, huh?"

If she didn't have 2 decades worth of dealing with his caustic character, she might have been offended. As it was, she shrugged it off. 

"Had-" What did she have? A bad weekend? It seemed like an understatement. Such was the rarity of her not finding the right word to say that the editor leaned forward.

“Everything okay, Sloanie?” 

She looked back at the man who had taken her under his wing when no one wanted to hire a woman in the paper business. Offering a soft smile, she said, “I don’t want you to worry, Henry. I just came across some trouble, that’s all.” She dropped into the seat across his desk.

His bushy brows met pushed down to meet in the middle. “What kinda trouble? You need money?”

“No, it’s not that kind of trouble. I just-” She decided the easiest answer was the truthful one. “I don’t remember what happened this weekend.”

“Whattya mean you don’t remember?”

“I remember going to The Roost on Friday. The next thing I know, you called this morning, chirping at me to get to work.”

“The hell? Whose head do I need to bust?”

She reached across the paper for a cigarette, flicked a match and inhaled before replying. “Don’t know yet. But don’t worry; I’ve got some help.”

“Help? Awww, not that mook Barry!”

Her eyes narrowed at the name she didn’t recognize. “Barry?” Her hand waved back and forth twice to extinguish the match. “You mean Bruce?”

“Bruce. Barry. Joe. Schmoe.”

“No, it’s not ‘that mook’ Bruce.” She waited for the inevitable raised eyebrow. “Jethro Gibbs.”

“The private dick?”

“Please let me be there the first time you say that to his face.”

“Well, excuse me. The private detective?” 

“Yes, the private detective.”

He took the cigarette stub out of his mouth and used it to light the next one. “You two’ve bumped heads a few times.”

“Yeah.”

“That all you’re bumpin’?”

“Oh my God.”

“What? I can’t want my best reporter to be happy?”

“With Jethro Gibbs?”

“Best damn man I’ve ever met.”

“Four other women thought the same.”

He shrugged. “Okay. Three ex-wives notwithstanding.”

“Why don’t those numbers match? What’s his story?”

Sitting back in the swivel chair, he tapped the cigarette on a nearby ashtray. “You know he’s from Chicago by way of Pennsylvania?”

She nodded. “I think I remember hearing that. Came to New York about 20 years ago?”

He mirrored her nod. “Did you know he was a cop?”

Her eyebrows rose. “No way. So how come he’s not a cop here?”

Henry took another drag of his cigarette and tapped it again. “What was goin’ on in Chicago about that time?”

She glanced around the room as her brain pieced together geography and events. She shook her head when one big piece fell into place. “You are not telling me he worked with Eliot Ness. You are not telling me that.”

He chuckled. “He wasn’t part of the Untouchables, no. He had a wife and kid and Ness only wanted men who had no immediate family Capone could get to.”

The other shoe dropped. “But he _did_ get to them.”

“Yeah,” Henry answered, his levity fading. “Gibbs may not have been part of the original team, but he was one of the few on the force who couldn’t be bribed or threatened. Word has it he broke a lot of Capone’s smaller stooges into giving out the locations of some of the stills. Capone lost over 2 million bucks because of that information.”

“And Gibbs lost his wife and kid.”

“Little girl. Yeah. Two particular nasty pieces of shit on the force were in deep with Capone. Gambling debts. One of them called Gibbs out on some trumped up police business. Meanwhile, the other guy goes to his home, wife lets him in, because why wouldn’t she?”

Jack rubbed a hand over her forehead. “Jesus. Please tell me the bastards faced justice.”

“You might say that.” He leaned forward. “The guy who called him away got life.”

“And the other guy?”

“They never found him. People think he beat it outta Chicago before Lady Justice got to him.”

“And what do you think?”

He shrugged like he didn’t know the meaning behind what he was about to say. “I think they might find a lot of interesting things if they ever drag the Chicago River. But what do I know?” He mistook her shellshock for uncertainty. “That was 20 years ago, Jack. He’s a different man now. In some ways, a better one.”

While she digested the information, she put out the cigarette that had lost its taste around the time Henry mentioned the murders. “I never knew.”

He waved away her apologetic tone. “I only knew because this boy Betty’s with looks like The One.” His eye roll said everything. “So me an’ Martha figured we’d better make nice with the parents. Dad’s some kind of crime historian. When I told him you got the step on Gibbs with the DiRossi case, the guy was impressed. Guess beatin’ Gibbs to the punch is somethin’.”

“If only my pay reflected that.”

Conveniently ignoring her jibe, he said, “So what are you two doin’? About whatever happened on the weekend?”

She was happy to have the conversation turn back to her, knowing what happened, even in its mystery, couldn't compare to what Gibbs had endured. 

"Working backwards. Retracing steps. Looking for suspects and leads."

"So like any other story. Just with you the subject."

"Something like that."

"So what do you need from me?"

"Take me off the beat for a few days. I need to go through my last few big stories. See who I offended."

Despite the seriousness of the matter, Henry laughed. "And you only need a few days?”

“Oh. Ha. I guess this is the perfect time to tell you I sent Mickey up to Albany to cover the union strike.”

“Aw, Jack!”

“Listen. He’s not going to learn if you don’t let him make mistakes. Besides, I have a good feeling about him. He’s a good kid.” She let him grunt before saying, “I need to see all the letters you tell the mail crew to keep from your reporters.”

“You know I only do that to protect you.”

“I know. But Gibbs wants to cover all the bases.”

“Oh, does he?” Henry pretended to not notice her glare, though his poorly hidden grin betrayed him. Pushing the intercom button, he barked into the speaker. “Get me all of the mail for Jack Sloane.” To her, he asked, “What else?”

“That should cover it. Start there and see where it leads.”

As she stood, he said, “You know we’d love to have you stay over ‘til you sort this out.”

He was a hardass 90 percent of the time, but he had a soft side, especially when it came to his reporters. She smiled her thanks. “I appreciate it, Henry. But I know you’re only saying that because Martha can’t cook worth a lick.”

They both knew that was entirely untrue, and they shared a wink. “Offer still stands. Keep me in the loop.” His hardass persona slipped into place and he dismissed her by returning his attention to the newspaper.

…..

By the time she got back to her desk, the mail was there, a stack that was higher than she had anticipated, and in the back of her mind, she heard a sarcastic comment from Henry. Pushing the unspoken snark out of her head, she went over to the archive cabinet and began sifting through her old stories, pulling one out, then another, until she had 12 months worth piled on a nearby desk. Satisfied with her thoroughness, she tied the copies with string and added the bundle to the mail, then scooped up the lot, balancing them precariously as she made her way to the door.

The rain and the armful of papers dissuaded her from walking to his office even though it was only 4 blocks over. She cursed not bringing the umbrella she told Gladys she was getting, cursed blue eyes and an easy smile for making her forget it. She made it from the cab to the door quick enough to avoid getting wet, and lightly jogged up the 4 flights of stairs to his office. Emily looked up from her nails.

“Hey,” Jack said. “Is he busy?”

“I don’t know,” Emily replied. “I mean, he’s not here, so I don’t know if he’s busy or not.”

Though she felt a little deflated at his absence, Jack couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s honesty. “Any idea where he went?”

“Considering he had a big file under his arm, I’d bet a quarter he went to Lou’s Diner. 12th and 51st.”

Jack contemplated the distance and her footwear. “I don’t suppose you have an extra umbrella around, do you?”

“Oh, sure! He’s got one in his office.” 

When she stood, Jack asked, “I don’t suppose I could leave these here?” She gestured to the papers.

Emily waved her into Gibbs’ office. Producing a small brass key, she opened a drawer in his desk and said, “Why don’t you put them here? He’s got a spare key.”

“Thank you. Listen, I want to apologize if I gave you a fright this morning. I was a bit frazzled.”

She brushed away the apology with a, “Please. I knew it must be real important if you were scared. I mean, you brought down the City Auditor with your story last year and he was a creep.” 

Jack smiled. “You read that story?”

“A-ha!” She announced her discovery and held up the umbrella that had been leaning behind a cabinet. “Read that story? You’re my biggest hero! I mean, besides Uncle Gibbs. The way you barrel ahead for the truth, no matter what? That takes guts.”

“Wow,” Jack said, feeling the heat touch her cheeks. “Thanks. I’m flattered you put me in the same group as Gibbs. He’s a good guy.”

“He’s a great guy,” Emily corrected with more than a dash of adoration. “Whatever happened to you, he’ll find out. And he’ll make someone pay.”

She nodded. Knowing his story added weight to the girl’s words. “I’ve got to find him first.” She tapped Emily’s shoulder with the proffered umbrella. “I’ll bring this back.”

…..

Elaine put a piece of pie down beside the coffee she topped up and walked away without a word. It was her silent signal to him that the time he requested was over. He had learned early on that a case could make him lose track of time and somewhere along the line, he and the waitress had developed a kind of alarm based on how many fingers he held up when he walked in. It had been 2 this time, meaning the pie ended 2 hours of single-minded focus. Still, he spent enough extra time on the papers spread out in front of him that Elaine came over to make sure everything was okay.

“I just made that pie.”

“It’s good pie, Elaine.”

She propped her hand on her hip. “Jethro Gibbs, you haven’t even touched it.”

“I don’t have to eat it to know it’s good.”

“Oh, listen to you, you charmer.” 

He glanced up and grinned. Taking the fork, he cut a generous portion and jammed it into his mouth. “‘Sgood pie.”

She only shook her head. “Tough case?” she asked, looking down at the pictures and papers that covered every square inch of the laminate table top. 

“Just startin’,” he replied, washing down the apple with the hot coffee. 

“Well, you’ll get him. Or her. You always do. Just promise me you'll keep your face all in one piece? I've grown awfully fond of it.” She tapped his nose and left the bill under his fedora.

His attention returned to the table and he wondered if he was going to have to solve one case in order to solve the other.

…..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked the idea of taking Gibbs' story and re-working it into the time period. Eliot Ness fit in perfectly.


	4. Chapter 4

…..

The walk wasn’t nearly as treacherous as she had feared and in fact, the cool air was a welcome change from the cloying summer heat that had fallen over the city and the rain swept away the grime if only for a day. She sidestepped the puddles and the garbage bags until the neon lights of Lou’s Diner guided her to her destination. The bell chimed over the door and a waitress behind the long bar greeted her with a smile. Jack shook out the umbrella and took a stool at the counter. 

“Coffee, please,” she said. 

Elaine flipped over a ceramic mug and poured. “Anything else?”

Jack glanced around. “What do you recommend?”

“I’ve been told the pie is good. I made it myself.”

“Ooh! I’ll have some of that.”

The unbridled joy made the waitress laugh. “Ice cream to go with it?”

“Yes, please!”

“Coming right up.”

As Elaine turned to get the dessert, Jack looked around again. From the minute she walked in, she understood why Gibbs liked it so much. It was warm and inviting and what you saw was what you got. There was no pretension to the place. It was very much like the man himself. 

When Elaine noticed her still looking around, she asked, "Looking for someone specific?"

Jack murmured her appreciation for the plate out down in front of her before replying, "Actually, I am. Mr. Serious? Military cut, sky-blue eyes?"

The waitress grinned. "Jethro Gibbs?"

"I love you know that in less than 10 words."

"He's a hard one to miss, honey." Jack agreed with a hum. "He was in here about half an hour ago. Working on some case." She leaned forward and whispered, "I normally don't ask, but it looked like that awful East Side Strangler case. 

Jack nodded, speaking around the piece of pie she had scooped into her mouth. "It was."

The confident answer surprised Elaine. "You don't work for him, because he definitely would've mentioned _you_."

There was no accusation in her tone. In fact, there was something almost teasing in the statement that made Jack blush.

"We're working together on the case, in a manner of speaking. Jack Sloane, The Post." She introduced herself with a smile and extended hand, which the waitress warmly returned. 

"Well! He _has_ talked about you. In a manner of speaking." Elaine grinned at the phrase and Jack's obvious curiosity. "Though it might have been a bit more on the growling side."

"The DiRossi case."

"That's the one. That man had the biggest, angriest bee in his bonnet for days! No amount of apple pie made _that_ go away, let me tell you." 

Jack covered her sheepish smile with her fork. “I find that hard to believe,” she said. “This pie is to die for.”

Elaine lightly slapped Jack’s arm. “Charmers. Both of you. And before you ask, he said something about going brushing up on his jazz. I’m going to guess you know what that means.”

It could only mean one thing, and Jack laughed at the image. “I sure do. I don’t believe it, but I sure do.” She glanced out the window into the rain that was still coming down. “I’m also wondering how I can claim all these taxis back to The Post!”

…..

Considering it was barely dinner time, The Roost was fairly quiet, but it didn’t stop the doorman from eyeing Gibbs from head to foot. 

“.99 before 5pm,” the big man said.

“Marcus?”

He turned to look at him sideways. “Do I know you?”

“No,” Gibbs admitted, “but I think we’ve got a friend in common- Jack Sloane?”

The man’s face lit up. “Miss J. Sure, sure.” Gibbs felt himself catalogued again, this time with a much different intent. “You’re sure you know her?”

The question made Gibbs glance down at his feet. “She not a fan of men with brown shoes?”

Marcus laughed. “No, sir, I wasn’t implying that. You just look a bit more dangerous than the other fellas she associates with.” 

There was nothing in his voice that made Gibbs think that was a bad assessment. “She come in with other fellas often?”

“Oh, I’m not answering that one! I like all these parts where they are.” He gestured to his face. “Speaking of.” His head tilted towards Gibbs’ nose.

“Long story. And a hard wall.” He reached for his wallet and took out a dollar bill. “She have any problems on Friday night?”

The change in topic made Marcus narrow his eyes. “She never has any problems,” he assured him. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“No fellas botherin’ her?”

He laughed. “Oh, they try. But it’s a kind of rite of passage for the new ones who come in, to see who can land the pretty blonde at Table 33.”

“Where is it?” 

Marcus pointed past the general seating area to the tables that arced in front of the stage. “She and her 2 friends sit there, every Friday night. Few drinks, a lot of laughs. But I think they’re genuinely here for the music.”

“Not everyone is?”

He laughed at the idea. “Most people pay to say they’ve been here. The young ones aren’t even old enough to drink.” He thumbed in the direction of the general seating. “But they pack the no alcohol area and drink their soda, so the boss likes it. The adults sit down there, but even then, half of them only want to say they were here the night so-and-so played. They got no appreciation of the music. Not like Miss J. And she tips damn good.”

Gibbs gave him another dollar. “You serve this early?”

Marcus pocketed the bill with a thankful nod but replied, “Only coffee and soda before 6pm. Ask Gloria at the bar.”

Gibbs nodded and made his way to the long stretch of mahogany at the far left from the door. A woman who had seen and done it all grabbed a mug and began pouring a coffee before he had even made it to the bar.

“Didn’t figure you were a soda man,” she said, waving away his money. “First coffee’s on the house. Heard you’re a friend of Jacqueline.”

“Thanks,” he replied. 

“Any time for you, Blue Eyes.”

He grinned at her forwardness and found the table Marcus had pointed out. It wasn’t the closest table to the stage, but it was the most strategically placed, centre of the room but far enough back to get the full sound from the speakers that hung on either side of the scaffolding above the stage. He knew he wouldn’t get the full effect of what a night would be like, but he took in what he could, from the dimly lit corners that held thousands of secrets to hard wood that made up everything from the chairs to the tables to the wall accents. The floor was parquet, well worn from years of dancing and shifting chairs and as he leaned back in his, he could see the heavy fabric that draped out from the centre chandelier to the 4 corners of the room. Considering what he’d already seen of Jack’s place, The Roost had the comfort, but none of the quirky charm.

“Only squares show up before 6.”

The voice jerked him out of his mental inventory, and he wasn’t surprised to see Jack standing in front of him. What did surprise him was what she had in her hands.

“You _are_ here for the chicken, right?” Her question was playful and teasing, and she pulled out a chair with her foot so she could sit. Placing the stacked containers in the middle of the table, she set out the plates she procured from Gloria, along with some cutlery.

“They don’t call it ‘The Roost’ for nothing,” Gloria said, following behind with the coffee pot and a cup for Jack. She topped up Gibbs’ mug, pulled some sugar packs out of her apron and added, “If you need anything, just ask.”

Jack nodded her thanks, then lifted the box lid to let out the aroma that she acknowledged with a quiet murmur. Gibbs watched her as she laid out the chicken and spooned out the mashed potatoes and gravy on his plate, then hers. Satisfied that everything was to her liking, she raised her mug, encouraging him to do the same. 

“To partners. And chicken.”

He could only shake his head, even as he tapped her cup. His smirk grew into a laugh when she took a sip only to realize she had forgotten to add the sugar.

…..

“This is almost as good as Elaine’s apple pie,” Jack said around a mouthful of chicken.

He nodded his agreement, then wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin on his plate. “I wondered how you knew how to find me.”

“Oh, I would’ve found you eventually, but I’m glad I had to go the long way around. I didn’t even know that diner was there.”

He shrugged. “Can’t imagine you make it to the Kitchen very often.”

“It _is_ a long trek from Brooklyn,” she admitted. “But I’ve been through it a few times. Work related.”

“You broke the Hudson River gambling ring a few years back. They say it was the largest sting in NYPD history.”

“You remember.”

“Remember? Hell, I was there that night. Had to sneak out the underground tunnel.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Why don’t I doubt you?”

He shrugged again, basking in her laughter. “Pie aside, everything okay today?”

Now it was her turn to lift a shoulder. “Went to work. Talked to Henry into giving me the rest of the week off. Pulled together the stories from the last year and the mailroom correspondence like you asked. It’s at your office.”

There was something in her eyes that made Gibbs narrow his. “What?”

“Nothing.” When his gaze didn’t relent, she looked away, almost embarrassed. “I took some stick from Henry about working with you.” He knew that wasn’t all of it, so he waited. “Part of me wants to ask you about Eliot Ness and the other part-” His face went hard and she quickly reached across the table for his hand. “Please. I’m never going to talk about something that is very obviously painful for you.”

He clenched his jaw but didn’t pull his hand away. “Doesn’t sound like Jack Sloane, Post reporter.”

“Give me some credit, will you?” she asked, an edge to her own voice. “I can distinguish between being a reporter and being a friend.”

He held her eyes as she held his hand. “Is that what we are, Jack? I thought we were partners.”

She didn’t take the bait, a last ditch attempt at pushing her away. “You ate all the chicken I brought. I’m afraid we’re friends now.”

She said it so nonchalantly that he couldn’t help but laugh. “Damn. S’good chicken, though.”

“Decent trade off then?”

He looked down at her hand still on top of his. “Yeah.”

The moment stretched between them until she finally asked, “So what now?” She, too, looked at their hands. “About the case, I mean?”

He smiled at her quick clarification. “Got your file in my pocket and a coffee maker at the office. One of those things is gonna have to go to the other.”

“And all my papers are at your office. So I guess that’s settled.”

Though her readiness to leave with him pleased him, he couldn’t help but say, “You don’t have to; we could do this tomorrow if you wanted to stay.”

“Did you want to stay?”

“No,” he replied, “but I figured you might.” He cringed at how unsure he sounded. 

If she saw his uncharacteristic uncertainty, she didn’t say. Instead, she winked and said, “On a Monday? It’s open mic night.” Her wrinkled nose told him everything she thought about it, but the twinkle in her eye told him of other things, too. The charged tension pulled between them until she slid her hand away with apparent reluctance. “But you’re paying the cab.”

…..


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Eliot Ness reference is to the Cleveland Torso Killer. The case actually pre-dates his case in Chicago against Capone, but I liked the extra realism it gave the chapter.

…..

The office was quiet, with it being long past 5 and Emily having gone home. A small desk lamp stayed on to warmly illuminate the entrance, allowing them to make their way to his office where he flicked on a larger light. He dropped her file onto his desk and hung his coat and hat before gesturing for her to do the same. He suspiciously eyed the familiar looking umbrella which brought out Jack’s sheepish shrug.

“Emily let me borrow it. I have no regrets; you made me follow you all over God’s green -and very wet- Earth today.”

“Keep it,” he said. “I didn’t even remember I had it.” The swivel chair squeaked under his weight. 

“Aren’t you going to make coffee?” she asked. When he looked up, she dramatically sighed at his blank expression. “Fine. I’ll make it. But don’t get any ideas about me being your gopher. I’m an independent woman.”

He smirked at her over-the-top declaration. “I don’t doubt it. Coffee pot’s in the other room.”

“Hmph.” She may have objected, but she went and got it anyway. When she returned, she set up the pot on a nearby window ledge, plugged it in and turned to the desk. “Emily let me put my papers in that drawer,” she said, tapping it with her toe.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, all the while trying to pretend to not look at the leg that was 6 inches away from his hand, both cursing and thanking the stars she was wearing pants and not the pleated skirt that was all the rage. A small brass key matched the lock and he twisted it to the left. Her heeled foot helped him pull the drawer open, but did nothing to stop the heat that had started at the tip of his ears and was now making its way below his belt. She didn’t help matters by reaching in and brushing her arm against his as she lifted the bundle from the drawer. He bristled at his body’s instant reaction and jerked back. 

She must have felt it, too, because she softly said, “Okay,” like she was trying to smooth over whatever waves she had just caused, and he felt like a heel for it.

Lightly touching her wrist, he stood and walked to the coffee pot and began pouring them both a cup as his way of apologizing. He privately berated himself for being a bastard. “So whattya got?” he asked. The swivel chair squeaked again.

Accepting the coffee and the apology, she, too, sat, and separated the mail stack from the archived stories. “Most of my work is general human interest stuff when it’s a slow news day. Which is more often than you think. And because the bigger stories take up a lot of time, I could only find 2 from the last year- the City Auditor case and the racketeering case in Queens.”

“Involving the construction company?”

“That’s the one.” 

Her pleasure at him knowing her work brought out a grin. “Brought down the governor’s brother-in-law. It was kinda a big deal.”

“Anyway,” she went on, though her smile didn’t dissipate, “Two big cases in the last 12 months. I brought the rest with me anyway, along with the fan mail, good and bad. So where do we start?”

He wiggled his fingers for the stack of mail. “If ya got enemies, it’s probably the ones you don’t know about. What’s the story behind these?”

Handing him half, she explained, “Joey Rodriguez, bless his heart, is paid to do nothing but sort the mail and make sure the bad stuff doesn’t get to the reporters. Henry says it’s ‘bad for morale’. Every once in a while, Joey’ll send up some letters from readers who tell us how much they like us, how great we are, that sort of thing.”

“Which is good for reporter morale.”

“Exactly.”

“You must get a stack.”

“Elaine was right; you _are_ a charmer. But yes, I do get my fair share, if I do say so myself.”

“Anyone in particular stand out?”

She knew what he was getting at -sometimes it was the nicest ones you had to watch out for- but she couldn’t help but tease. “Yeah, this guy here sends me a letter every week.”

Gibbs squinted at the letter, only to find her glasses quickly materialize beside his hand. His raised eyebrow matched hers but he turned his attention back to the letters she had offered. 

_Dear Ms. Sloane,_

_You sure did look lovely today on your way to the Underground. Those pinstripe slacks are certainly a favourite of mine! I read your story on the rejuvenation project in Harlem and I think it's a fine thing you're doing not only for the city but the people who live up there. Please keep up the good work and if Steven ever runs out of sugar, let me know._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Edward Vernon_

Gibbs scowled at the letter. "He knows what you wear. This guy's watching you."

"Rein it in, Cowboy. 'This guy's' also 60 years old," she said. "I suspect it's the old man who sits on the bench across the street from the subway. I get my coffee at the little stand outside the entrance. Run by Steve. I ran a story about 2 years ago exposing the neglect at a Brooklyn senior home. He's a tenant there. "

"Mmm," he grunted, dialling back his displeasure by a notch. "I could probably chase him down if I needed to." 

"Oh, I don't know. He played with Jim Thorpe and you've got a bad knee."

"How did you know that?"

"I did some digging on Mr. Vernon. Kinda what I do, you know?"

He rolled his eyes at her sarcasm. "You know what I meant."

"I heard you wincing coming up my stairs. Is it just the rain?"

He nodded and felt an unusual warmth at her soft inquiry. "Mostly, yeah."

Her murmur was sympathetic and kind. "Gladys swears by Vaporub. I bet you could sweet talk her into giving you a jar."

Her light teasing detoured them away from the personal road they were on, and he appreciated the tactic. "So Mr. Vernon is in the clear. Anyone else you did some digging on who might've raised a flag?"

She shook her head. “No one who stood out or sent more than a letter.”

Gibbs quickly scanned the envelopes of the rest of the ‘fan’ mail, looking for names or repeats that might have twinged in his gut, but nothing rang the alarm. “Let’s see the hate mail.”

She pulled her chair around to his side of the desk and untied the bundle. Seeing his raised eyebrow, she said, “I’ve never seen these before; figured I’d read along.” 

He only grunted and pulled the first one out of the envelope.

_Jack Sloane,_

_Your a hack._

_An angry resident_

“It’s almost poetic, isn’t it?” she asked. “Love the spelling.”

“Dumb ass put his name on the return address.” Gibbs tossed it to the side and took another one.

_Ms. Sloane,_

_Your blaspheme and utter disregard to follow the Word of our Lord and Savior will be your downfall. Thoust be struck down by God’s hand and will._

_Bless you,_

_Mrs. Angela Baines_

Before he could ask, Jack explained, “I had mentioned once that I had been too busy to go to church for the Christmas service. Guess Mrs. Baines didn’t like that.”

“Funny. Didn’t take you for the church goin’ type.”

“Oh, I’m not,” she smiled. “But I like the pomp of it all. And there’s comfort in the ceremony that I see why people enjoy it. You?”

He remembered what she had said at The Roost. “Not since Chicago,” he admitted, and he was grateful she only nodded her understanding. “Three weddings aside.”

She grinned and bumped his shoulder with hers. “Did the priest start recognizing you?”

Her ability to tease him was infectious. “Told me the next one would be free.”

Her laugh went to the corners of the room and he couldn’t help but join in. She slid her arm through his and gave his bicep a squeeze.

“Keep reading,” she told him. “I can’t wait to see what someone says about my stance on women and drinking.”

He tilted his head in her direction. “And what is it?”

“It’s ‘hell, yeah!’”

He smiled again, though it was short-lived. 

“What is it?” she asked, alerted by his seriousness. When she attempted to read over his arm, he shielded her away from the letter. “Hey.”

“Ya don’t need to read this.”

“Considering your face, I think I do.”

His brusque but steady glare did nothing to change her own. There was a part of him that was secretly pleased by her determination. But another part wanted to protect her from-

“Words. You’re trying to protect me from words.” She took advantage of his surprise at her reading his mind and snatched the letter from his hand.

“ _‘My dearest Jacqueline’_ ,” she began reading. It was the only thing she read aloud as her eyes skimmed down the page. Her swallow was audible. “Wow. That’s not very nice, is it?”

“You know this dirtbag?” His tone was hard but his eyes were soft. She may have tried to brush off the depraved threats but a slight press of her lips gave her away and he didn’t like it.

She flipped the envelope over. _Curtis Vickery_. “Surprised he put his name to it. But no. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He thinks he can get away with it,” Gibbs said, his voice promising the opposite. “Probably knows you never see them, but it makes him feel good to think you just might.” He leafed through the stack and found 3 more from the same sender. “Might have to have a talk with your editor.”

She saw his fingers tighten around the envelopes and reached over to loosen them. “Don’t blame Henry. He thinks he’s doing what’s best.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be makin’ sure of it.”

The threat that rippled through his words made her link her fingers with his and squeeze. “It’s fine, really.”

“Fine? Ya can’t remember 2 whole days, or have you forgotten that, too? This guy’s promised to-” His eyes flicked down to the letters. “To do some sick things. It’s fine?”

She understood his venom because inwardly, she was feeling it, too. But she was more adept at deciphering words. “He promised to do some pretty horrible things,” she agreed, “but drugging me wasn’t one of them.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t think about it.”

“What will you do now?” she asked, deciding focusing on him was a better counter to his simmering anger.

“Have Emily make some calls tomorrow. Got a contact or two in the Clerk’s Office. Dig up this guy’s information, make a house call.”

“Gibbs…”

“What, Jack? What? It’s what ya hired me for, wasn’t it? It’s what I do.”

“I like you, Gibbs. I’d hate to see something happen to this face.” She gently lifted his chin with her free hand. “Something more, I mean.” Her eyes went to his taped nose, bruise tendrils stretching out from under the bandage to shade under his eyes. “Have you gone to a doctor for that?” His head shake got him a sigh in return. “Is it broken?”

“Probably.”

“Okay, tough guy.” 

When she began peeling away the tape, he pulled back. “What are ya doin’?”

“My father was a boxer, remember? I’m pretty damn familiar with broken faces. Now, stay still.” He winced when the tape got yanked off. “Baby.” His eyebrow went up in a suggestive arch and she rolled her eyes. “It was an admonishment, not an endearment.”

“That’s too bad.”

She pretended to examine his nose but the pink swatch across her cheeks gave her away. 

"When did you break it?" she asked, a last ditch effort to deflect his focus.

"Last night."

"Wall?"

"How'd you know?"

"Boxer's daughter," she reminded him. "Unless the fist is gloved, it hits the mouth as much as it hits the nose, and you don't have a split lip." Her fingers rested against his temples to allow her thumbs to bracket his nose. "So who introduced your face to a wall and why?"

He shrugged a little, mesmerized by the hazel flecks in her brown eyes. "One of the Barbaro brothers. Hasslin' a woman at the- OW!"

With her thumbs pressed into his nose, she had given it a quick twist, putting the bone back into place.

"There," she cooed, patting his cheek. "Good as new. You're all pretty again. Baby." She sat back, deftly avoiding the lure of his eyes. Gesturing to the letters with a head tilt, she asked, "We really think this is the guy? And if it is, it doesn't explain what happened."

He subconsciously touched his nose, a quiet hum acknowledging the improvement. "Maybe a visit will give some answers." 

She made a face at his sarcasm. "Fine. I'm not going into work tomorrow anyway, so we can go in the morning."

"'We'?" 

"Oh please. Like I'm going to let you go by yourself. You can't even handle one of the Barbaro brothers, and they're tomato cans. Who knows what this guy might do to you." He was too stunned at her gall to respond before she continued, "He lives in the Bronx. Dad used to train at a ring near this dirtbag's address. You can meet me there around 10."

He was caught flat footed by her insistence and her persistence. And her use of the term 'dirtbag'. He was so off-balance that he simply nodded and said, "Okay," and by the time he heard the word out of his mouth, he knew he'd have to be a particularly cruel bastard to try and take the smile off her face. Still, he tried to rein it in. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he warned. “If this isn’t the guy responsible for what happened, we’re back to Square One.”

She turned her chair around so she was resting against the desk and facing him. Her feet crossed at the ankles on the window ledge and he tried not to imagine how toned her legs were under the pants. 

“You don’t really think he did it, do you? This is just going to be a courtesy call about the letters.”

He couldn’t help but smirk at the term ‘courtesy call’. “Probably.” 

His fidgeting thumbs caught her attention, and she offered a soft, “Oh!” before reaching into her pocket. “I almost forgot these.” Placing a small box in the centre of his palm, she curled his fingers around it and said, “I hope you like cinnamon.” 

Opening his fingers, he grinned at seeing the popular toothpicks and nodded when she said, “Thought those might help.” As he flicked the top open, she asked, "What does your gut tell you?"

"My gut?" He tucked a toothpick into the corner of his mouth and watched as she took one from the offered box.

"Yeah, your gut. Word has it, you beat the police to the Sinclair kidnapper because they went on evidence but you went on your gut. Saved that little girl."

"Cops get caught up on a single suspect," he said, deflecting the comment. "All evidence starts pointin' to one person because that’s all the cops can see."

"Confirmation bias."

He remembered how technical her notes were, both on the killer and the victims. "Read your write-ups on the Strangler case. They're good."

The toothpick hadn’t made it to her mouth, being used instead as something to keep her fingers occupied. It paused between her thumb and index finger at his assessment. "Wow. A compliment from Leroy Jethro Gibbs. I bet not many people can say that."

His eyes went from her hands to her eyes where he held them with his. "Just 'Jethro'.” He let the invitation settle between them, soft and easygoing, then said, “And quit deflectin'. Almost considered callin' up Ness. Looks like he could use some help with those torso killings."

The fact he name dropped Eliot Ness, knowing it would skirt his own history meant more to her than his compliment. The name would forever be tied to Gibbs' tragedy, and she knew it was his way of letting her in.

"Ness couldn’t afford me," she said with a wink, and he knew she understood. "Your gut?"

He moved the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. "I think whatever happened to you is connected to the case. I think you found somethin' that was gettin' you too close to the killer."

The idea that she not only crossed paths with the killer but may have been at his mercy in some way brought a sourness to her throat. "So why didn’t he kill me?" Her voice was as level as possible, even if her eyes weren't so convincing. 

"Think of the victims," he said. "How did you describe them all? Young women in low paying jobs who all worked in or around the East Side. You didn't fit the profile." His logic seemed to comfort her. "You sure there's nothin' missing from the file?"

She reached back and leafed through the file on her lap. After a minute passed, she shook her head. "Looks like everything I would put together. The crime scene photos aren't here, but no one would steal them; they're copies, not the originals. I can get my source to get me more copies."

"Maybe the killer doesn't know that."

"I'll call my contact in the morning and get copies. Speaking of morning-” She stood and yawned and he was given the gift of being able to trace her lean stretch with his eyes. “So 10 o’clock, Diego’s Gym?”

The question made him realize she was making a move to leave. “Where exactly are you going?”

She stopped mid-stretch. “Uh, home? It’s almost 11 and if I look at any more papers, I’m going to go cross-eyed. Especially when you’re the one using my glasses.” When he ignored her jibe and instead stood and went for his coat, she turned the question around on him. “And where are _you_ going?”

“Drivin’ you home,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Shaking her head, she waved away his offer. “I can take the subway. It’s no big-” His face was blank and he blinked once. “Deal? It’s clear across town, Gibbs. Really. I can take a subway by myself."

"Didn't say ya couldn't."

She turned to slip into the jacket he was holding out for her. "But you didn't say you'd let me."

She could hear his chuckle against her ear. It was low and warm and sent a thrill through her.

"Have a hard time believin' anyone _tells_ you what to do, Ms. Sloane."

"You're not entirely wrong, Mr. Gibbs," she admitted, stepping forward to avoid giving into the temptation to step back into him. She lifted her hair from the collar as a pretense and buttoned the jacket. A safe distance away from his physical pull, she was able to regain her footing enough to say, "Though I have been known to be… persuaded."

"I know a great chicken place."

She took in his playful eyes and shook her head in amusement. "Do you? Too bad it's so late. Which I guess is why you're driving me home. Well, we'd better get going before my chariot turns into a pumpkin."

…..


	6. Chapter 6

…..

He wasn't sure which version of the city he liked best- the daytime version that cast the city in the light, silhouetting buildings into a skyline he'd grown fond of over the last 2 decades, or the nighttime version that hid the grimy underbelly. Casting a glance at the woman in the passenger seat, he was starting to think she could make a case for both. The wipers squeaked on every other pass, fighting against the rain that had come back with a vengeance. Still, she smiled and she caught his curious look.

"Washes away everything. Lets the city start fresh. Metaphorically speaking."

"You go to school for that?" he asked. "Writin'?"

She smiled again and shook her head. "No. I went to Temple for Psychology.”

“Philly?” He briefly looked away from the road to encourage her to continue.

“Followed a boy.” She shook her head at the memory. “He dropped out in the second year. Broke my mother’s heart. He was in Medicine.”

“Ah,” he said. “Nothing like your little girl marrying a doctor.” The words came out before his brain could connect them to a past that still ached in his heart. His face must have shown the pain because she reached over and rested her hand over his white-knuckle grip on the gear shift. Any question about how much her boss had told her about Chicago was answered in her quiet touch. 

“Figured I wouldn’t disappoint Mom twice,” she went on, as if his emotional hiccup hadn’t happened, “so I stuck it out. Four years later and she got a doctor in the family- Dr. Sloane.”

He signalled a left turn and shifted down, her fingers still curled around his. “So what are ya doin’ in the ink business?”

Her laugh was genuine, even if it had the slightest edge to it. “When was the last time you went to a female doctor?” She heard her own question. “Okay, let’s pretend you go to the doctor on a regular basis. How many female doctors do you see?” His little shrug made her nod. “Exactly. Now imagine what the number is for Psychology.”

He conceded the point with a nod. “So why’d ya choose it? Must’ve been somethin’ else you could’ve taken in your pursuit of this boy.”

His phrasing smoothed out her laugh. “I don’t know. People interest me. Their stories fascinate me. I can have all that _and_ a job with journalism. I didn’t have the experience, but Henry liked my sass.” She heard his dismayed grunt and said, “I said ‘sass’.”

His smirk sneaked out. “Your stop, Cinderella.” The car pulled up to the curb and he put it in ‘park’. 

Leaning her head back into the seat, she closed her eyes and sighed. “Hell of a day, Cowboy.”

“We’ll do better tomorrow,” he promised, thinking she was disappointed in their progress to find out what happened to her. As he was beginning to find out, she had a keen way of reading his mind.

“No,” she replied, “it’s okay. We did good work today. It just doesn’t seem like it was only this morning-” Her voice trailed off as she opened her eyes and looked at her building.

He followed her gaze. “You need me to walk ya to the door?”

“No.”

“You _want_ me to walk ya to the door?”

She aimed a smile at him. “It’s late. You could always come in.” His chuckle was as low as her sly suggestion. With a shrug that pretended to be innocent, she said, “I’ve got two bedrooms. And it’d be a hell of a lot better than that room you’re renting in the Kitchen.”

His eyebrows rose at her knowledge of his living arrangements, but he set aside that conversation for another time. “What would Gladys think?”

“She’d be so happy I brought such a nice boy home.”

His laugh filled the car’s small space. “I’ll see you at the gym. 10am.”

Her sigh was played for dramatic effect. “Fine.” Touching his hand again, she squeezed and smiled. “I appreciate your help, Gibbs.”

“We’ll see what you say when I send ya the bill.”

She rolled her eyes as she opened the door and stepped out. Turning back to him, she said, “The gym. 10am,” before giving one last smile and swinging the door closed. 

He watched her jog up the stairs (for purely professional reasons, he told himself) and waited until she offered a small wave and entered the brownstone before he put the car into gear and pulled away.

…..

The gym’s namesake was shouting directions from the ring corner, cigar pushed furiously into the corner of his mouth as he mimed the action he wanted. A lock of the Cuban’s white shock of hair, normally slicked back, had escaped its captivity, as did a string of Spanish expletives that Gibbs immediately recognized. The door had squeaked when he entered, but only the big man on the stool beside it bothered to pay him any attention, and as soon as identification was made, all attention went back to the ring. Gibbs couldn’t blame him.

He’d never seen a woman in the ring, never seen a female in gym garb, and definitely never one with gloves on. He leaned against the wall beside the man he knew as ‘Paul’ and watched.

“She’s gonna give the old man a heart attack,” Paul grinned.

The joke behind the prediction was, she wasn’t the one he was yelling at- it was the young man who couldn’t make headway on a woman who was a good 6 inches shorter.

“How long she been in there?” Gibbs asked.

“‘Bout half an hour. Beanpole there is Victim #4.”

Whatever she gave up in size and strength, she made up in speed. Her footwork was light and constant, darting forward then back, then to the side, forcing the young man into circling to his left, away from his dominant jab hand.

“Right! Right! Right!” Diego barked. “She got you flappin’ like a duck! _¡Oh, Dios mio!_ ”

Her biggest strength was her boxing knowledge, because her footwork was intricate, but it was her hands that worked in tandem with the speed and the precision. She knew she’d never be able to knock him out, but she also knew she could do damage with enough jabs, and his face was bearing the fruit of her ability to pick through his defense. Her jabs were so accurate and sharp that his self-protective mode kicked in to lift his hands higher to guard his face.

“No!” Diego shouted, bending at the waist. “Down, not up.”

But it was too late. The move everyone but the young fighter saw coming came with deadly intent, and the skin over his ribs rippled when her glove found its unprotected target. The casual audience recoiled and winced as one, and the fighter touched his knee to the mat in surrender.

“Pay up, suckers!” she crowed, arms raised in the air. She was halfway through her victory turn when she saw him by the door. “Hey Cowboy! Wanna give it a try?”

“I got 5 bucks on JQ,” Paul shouted first.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes at the man. “Thanks.”

The droll delivery did nothing to change his opinion. “I heard Frankie Barbaro introduced your face to his fist. And he’s a freakin’ potato sack.”

“It was a wall,” Gibbs corrected him. “And while the introductions were bein’ made, the girl got to sneak out the back door, so not a total loss.”

“You’re a gentleman, I’ll give ya that. Still, ya might wanna ask JQ how to keep your face arranged the way God intended.” Gibbs agreed with a grin. “I should pay Frankie a visit?”

“Nah,” Gibbs said. “Appreciate it, though.” The two men knew each other through various acquaintances over the years and were rarely on opposite sides of the line.

Paul nodded. “Okay. But if ya break her heart, I’ll be payin’ _you_ a visit.”

He didn’t have to ask who ‘her’ was, just as he knew his nose would be the least of his concerns if the big man got a hold of him. Fortunately, he didn’t plan on giving him a reason. “‘JQ’?”

“She doesn’t like to be called ‘Jacqueline’,” he replied, his voice low and close.

Gibbs glanced over to the ring where she had already slipped out between the ropes and was giving Diego a hug and a smile that spoke of how long they knew each other. He walked over slowly, giving them time. Seeing his approach, Jack waved him over.

“Diego, I want you to meet someone.”

“ _¡Asere!_ ” He held out a hand that almost crushed Gibbs’. “I know this one,” he said to Jack. “Helped my cousin find the cheating bastard husband of hers. Ran off with some _puta_ from Jersey.”

“Rosalyn,” Gibbs remembered. “I only found him. You handled the rest.”

Jack held up her hands. “Stop right there. I probably don’t want to know what ‘the rest’ means.” Wiping her forehead with a towel, she said, “Five minutes? Just need to hit the showers.”

He nodded. “Sure.” Nearly every eye in the place watched her enter the door on the far side of the room. Any twinge of jealousy he might have had was negated by Diego’s obvious protectiveness.

“So what brings New York’s best detective to my humble gym in Brooklyn?” Diego asked. “Besides Jacqueline, of course.”

Gibbs grinned, both at the label and the association. “Just helpin’ her with a case.” Regardless of how close she was with the gym owner, he didn’t feel it was his place to delve into things any further without her there. His brevity made the old man frown.

“She’s okay though, eh?”

There was enough in the question to let Gibbs know what would happen if the answer wasn’t what Diego wanted to hear. He quickly diffused the situation. 

“It’s good. She’s just gonna make sure my face stays pretty.”

He threw his head back and laughed, his cigar squeezed between two thick fingers. “Maybe I send her over to visit those Barbaro goons?”

“Jesus, word gets around.”

“You’re a good man, Gibbs. We keep our ear out for family. Besides, those Italians can’t keep their mouths shut until you get close, then they scurry like _hutias_. You want privacy, I recommend you a nice little _paladar_ to take Jacqueline.” His wink wasn’t missed by Jack’s re-emergence.

“What are you up to, old man?” She softened her accusation with a kiss on his cheek. 

“Bah. You won’t go with my nephews so I have no choice but to match you to this.” He gestured to Gibbs from head to foot.

“Gee, thanks.”

She kissed his other cheek. “Such a romantic!” Close enough for only Diego to hear, she whispered, “Thank you.” To Gibbs, she asked, “Ready to go?”

He feigned impatience. “Yeah. About 10 minutes ago.”

She was having none of it. “Then you shouldn’t have been 15 minutes early.”

Diego’s laughter followed them out the door.

…..


	7. Chapter 7

…..

The trip to Curtis Vickery’s didn’t take long, and Gibbs’ confrontation took even less. In fact, the squabble in the car between Gibbs and Jack was twice as long.

“I’m coming with you,” she had told him when he raised an eyebrow at her attempt to open the car door.

“You’re stayin’ here. I need someone to hold my hat.” Before she could get the retort out, he softened his sarcasm. “Jack, there’s no reason for you to give this asshole the satisfaction of seeing you on his doorstep. Lemme handle this one, okay?”

His words had smoothed her edges if not her glare. “Don’t get that nose broken again. I won’t be able to fix it this time.” She had patted his cheek. “And weirdly enough, I’ve grown accustomed to this face.”

He had jogged up the stairs and banged on the door, and while she couldn’t hear his words from the car, she was able to catch a glimpse of Vickery’s face and could easily guess the quiet menace that escaped Gibbs’ lips. Part of her was embarrassed she found it so attractive. A very small part.

Just as quickly as it started, it was over, and he was back in the car. When he held out his hand for his fedora, all he had said was, “Hungry? ‘Cause I know a place.”

…..

“You found him.”

Jack grinned at Elaine’s greeting. “Yep. In the couch cushions with about 45 cents in change.”

“Great,” Gibbs said, taking the stool beside her, “you can pay for breakfast.”

“He always this grumpy this early?” she asked the waitress.

Pouring two cups of coffee, she laughed. “Oh, no. He’s usually worse.” She winked and asked, “The usual for you, Gibbs? And what can I get you, honey?”

“Oh! I’d love some wheat cakes. With some sausage and hash on the side. And a glass of orange juice.” Gibbs blinked at the size of the order. “What?” she asked. “I literally just went 12 rounds with 4 men.” Elaine’s eyebrow rose. “Long story, Elaine. Anyway, I’m hungry.”

“Comin’ right up, sweetie.”

Gibbs slid the sugar container Jack’s way, much to her delight. “Speaking of going 12 rounds-” She reached into her pants pocket. 

“You don’t carry a purse,” he said, noticing it for the first time.

She looked up. “No. Been mugged twice with a purse. Ripped the straps right off my shoulder! Haven’t been mugged since.”

“Maybe you should’ve socked ‘em.”

“I would’ve, if the little shits hadn’t knocked me to the ground. Anyway, here.” She held out two $5 bills from the four she unfolded. “I don’t know what your rate is.”

“Jesus, Jack, put that away. No wonder you were mugged.”

“Please.” She eyerolled away his criticism. Giving her offering a second thought, she added the other 2 bills. “Is $10 a day acceptable?”

“You gonna box your way into payin’ me?”

Pushing the bills into his shirt pocket, she laughed. “With those tomato cans? I could. But I go there for the sport, not the money. Is that enough?”

“Jack.” He wasn’t going to tell her he’d work the case for free, but his tone all but said so.

“Jethro.” 

Her voice went faux sultry, but it still did a number on his libido. Fortunately, Elaine returned with their breakfasts.

“I warmed up the syrup for you, honey,” she told Jack. “And I brought extra.”

With her hand over her heart, Jack said, “You’re an angel.”

“How about you, sugar?” Elaine directed the question at Gibbs.

“Careful ‘bout throwin’ that word around with this one in earshot.” He jerked a thumb at Jack.

“Oh, there is _no_ way to answer that without it sounding risqué. Let me just top up your coffee and be on my way before I get myself in trouble!”

He watched Jack raise the syrup pitcher up then down then up again, her eyes gleefully wide as the amber liquid poured over her pancakes.

“Come to momma,” she purred.

“You two need some time alone?” he asked with a smirk.

“Don’t be jealous,” she told him. “Everything’s better when you pour syrup on it.”

The smirk twitched upward. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her cheeks might have gone pink but her words were irresistibly confident. “You do that.” She dug into her breakfast with unabashed enthusiasm. “What made you change your mind about Vickery? About him being the one who drugged me, I mean?”

He dipped his toast into the sunny-side up egg. “Got to thinkin’ last night. You identified the old man; you made the connection between him and the letters. Figured if this Curtis guy was responsible for what happened, you woulda had some kinda hint or clue.”

“You mean, my gut.”

“Yeah, your gut.” He lifted his mug. “Guy like this doesn’t go from threatening letters to drugging someone, doesn’t matter how threatening the letters are.”

“He’d test the waters, so to speak.”

He nodded. “Yep. He’d try to get close to you first, maybe bump into you on the subway or the newstand. Maybe move up to startin’ a conversation.”

“Baby steps. Creepy, tiny baby steps.” She took another bite. “You sure you didn’t take psychology?”

“Just seen it a thousand times. The good news is, it usually ends worse than it has.”

“That’s the good news?”

His shoulder lifted. “For you. I’m just sayin’, I’ve seen it end worse.”

She let his theory ruminate. “So this guy’s got to be confident. But blends in.”

“Or he’s someone you see every day.”

“Jesus.”

“Sound like someone else you know?”

“Sounds like my profile of the East Side Strangler.”

His eyebrows raised over the rim of his coffee cup. "That what your gut tells you?"

"No, but it's scary to think there could be more of these guys out there."

"I don't think there 'could be'," he said, leaving the implication hanging.

She shuddered at the thought. "My brain can only handle one at a time."

"Then that's what we'll do. You almost done?"

Glancing over to his plate, she asked, "You eating that bacon?" He gave her a look, up and down as he pushed his plate over, and she grinned. "Hollow leg. Dad said so.” She popped the crispy bacon into her mouth. “Granted, he also said I was an angel, so take that with a grain of salt.”

“Can’t it be both?”

The second piece paused at her lips. “Aren’t you the charmer?”

Elaine chose that moment to return and heard the question. “He certainly can be, when he wants. Here.” She put down two paper cups. “Thought you might want to take some coffee with you. I have the feeling you’re going to need it.” She slipped the bill under his fedora and winked. 

Jack looked at the hat then at Gibbs. “I gave you all my money.”

With a sigh, he pulled out three $1 bills and left them on the table, picked up his hat and slid out of the booth. She was quick to follow, pausing only to down her orange juice. 

“Where to, Cowboy?”

“Well, Dollface-” He waited for the glare he knew was coming, and smirked. “Figured we’d head over to the 7h, see about gettin’ copies of the crime scenes.”

“Crime scenes? You’re talking the East Village Strangler. So you _do_ think what happened to me is connected.”

“I think we need to explore all possibilities. Besides, these cops aren’t gonna solve the case themselves.”

She grinned at his bravado but tapped his coffee cup with hers in solidarity. “Lead on.”

…..

They were halfway to the precinct when they knew something was wrong. Twice he had pulled over to let firetrucks pass, trucks that were going in the same direction they were headed.

“This isn’t good,” was all she said.

“Nope.”

Though they couldn’t get closer than a block to the precinct, they didn’t have to- the black smoke billowing into the morning sky told them everything. Uniforms were standing outside, some redirecting traffic and onlookers, others just staring up at the old brick building, hats pushed back on heads or tucked under arms, their owners standing stunned and silent.

“There goes the crime scene photos.”

Gibbs slowly whistled. “There goes _all_ crime scene photos.”

The precinct’s evidence room took up half the top floor and whatever wasn’t literally up in flames would be destroyed by the water being shot up from the ground by the fire crew. She saw a familiar face and blew out a sharp whistle. Ten cops turned at the sound, but it was a young man who raised his chin in recognition. Jogging over to her, he was mindful of the camera around his neck.

“Andy, meet Detective Jethro Gibbs. Gibbs, Andrew Previn, the Post’s finest photographer.”

“The Post’s only photographer,” he said.

“What’s the scoop, Andy?” she asked.

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Heard the call over the radio about 10 minutes ago. Not much to say; looks like the fire started in the evidence room, but that’s all anyone’s said.”

She looked around. “Where’s Ned?” The paper’s police reporter was nowhere to be found.

Andy shrugged. “Word is, the 19th called in an exterminator for their rat problem. He’s probably up there now, trying to come up with a good headline pun. Cops and rats. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Her hand discreetly found Gibbs’ elbow, giving an apologetic tug. Crass humor was the norm in her business- jokes were made about priests, politicians and the police, most of the time to deflect the power they had over the press. But she had found a new reason to be somewhat proprietary over the police. At least, a certain ex-one. He subtly leaned into her fingers, as if he knew.

A loud crack got everyone's attention. Andy looked up in time to see the rest of the roof cave in. "Gotta go, Sloanie." 

Gibbs tapped her shoulder to direct her away from the carnage. “No sense standin’ here lookin’ at it,” he said. “Sloanie.”

She walked backwards, looking at the scene unfolding even as she shot a glare at him. Ignoring the name, she said, “I’ll get Andy’s own crime scene photos. They may not have the detail of the official ones, but he’s got a good eye.”

“He’s sweet on you.”

She turned to match his stride. “He’s a nice guy.”

“Gladys would be thrilled.”

There was humour in his voice, but she caught the edge of unnecessary jealousy and laughed. “Sure. Until she found out he still lived with his mother. Kinda makes relationships with women tricky, know what I’m saying?”

“Nope. I left home at 17.”

“So no problems in your relationships with women?” A light teasing lifted her words. They both knew she was more than aware of his history.

“I never had a problem, no.”

She could only laugh at his deadpanned response. They got to the car and she looked over the roof from the passenger side. “Where to now?”

He retrieved the keys from his pocket. “We’re gonna solve the Strangler case.”

He said no more, getting into the car and leaving her standing on the curb with her hand on the handle. “Oh,” she said, mostly to herself. “Is that all?”

…..


	8. Chapter 8

…..

“Hey Uncle Gibbs, I got the info on that dirtbag you wanted.”

Jack grinned at the term the young girl had obviously lifted from Gibbs.

“Don’t need it,” he told her, marching right to his office.

Emily threw her hands up in the air. “Then why’d you ask me to get it?”

Gibbs paused in the doorway. “Were ya busy doin’ somethin’ else?” Seeing her unimpressed head tilt, he tapped the wall. “S’what I thought. Two coffees.”

“Please,” Jack said, touching Emily’s arm. “And thank you.”

“At least _someone_ appreciates me around here!” she yelled out to Gibbs’ retreating back.

Jack joined him in his office and closed the door at his silent gesture. Digging her file from the drawer, he dropped it with a thud on top of his desk and got right to the point. 

“Tell me everything you know or suspect about the Strangler.”

It wasn’t his directness that caught her by surprise, but rather the obviousness of the answers.

“Everything’s there,” she replied, pointing to the file. She sat across from him and crossed her legs.

He nodded. “I know. But I wanna hear it out loud.”

She pondered the request for a second before shrugging. “Okay.” She reached for his pad of paper and took a felt tip marker from the cup. “Four victims so far,” she began. “First victim: Katherine Freeman, a 22 year old student from Buffalo, was studying to be a nurse at NYU. Elizabeth Russell, 24 from Kansas City, waitress at a diner in the Village. Debbie Locke, 24 from New York, secretary to a lawyer in Lenox Hill, and Sandra Whitstone, 23 from New Jersey, was staying with friends in SoHo for the weekend.” She flipped the file open to pull out a map. “Tape?” He rummaged through his desk until he could produce the desired item. “Thanks.” She took the map to his door and taped it to the frosted glass. Then she taped the short breakdown of each victim to various parts of the map. “The only direct connection is where they all lived, or in Sandra’s case, where she was staying. Debbie Locke worked in Lenox Hill but she lived on East 14th near Union Square Park, where her body was found.” She tapped black Xs. “This is where they lived,” she said, then tapped 4 red Xs. “This is where they were found.”

“All close to home.”

“That’s why the police think it had to be someone who knew their routines, knew their routes.”

“Cause of death?”

“The reason he was called the Strangler was due to the bruising around the neck, but the coroner discovered lesions on the lungs and trachea of all 4 victims, leading him to believe some kind of chemical was used to incapacitate them first. Redness around the mouth looks like he came up behind them with a cloth, covered their mouths and overpowered them. Bruising on several landing points leans towards that theory.” He raised his eyebrow. “Knees, elbows, palms of the hand,” she explained. “Bruising on the neck also says they were alive when he suffocated them, but there wasn’t enough damage to the trachea to indicate they died from strangulation.”

Gibbs looked away to put the pieces together. “So he comes up behind them, drugs them, takes them to ground where he chokes them _and_ suffocates them?”

She came around his desk and gestured for him to stand up. Taking his left hand, she placed it around her throat, fingers under her right ear, then took his right hand and put it over her mouth. He reflexively stepped closer, his blue eyes burning into her brown. The moment she was trying to re-enact bore little resemblance to the moment that was building between them. There was no fear in the way the 4 women must have felt. There was no comparable malevolence between Gibbs and the killer. His touch was warm and welcomed, her response was mutual and given freely. Slowly, he drew his right hand from her mouth to slide into her hair while his left thumb brushed up from her throat to her bottom lip. 

Emily chose that moment to rap on the frosted window. Jack stepped back quicker than Gibbs who seemed to be in no hurry to break the contact. Not looking away, he called out, “Come on in.”

The young girl balanced the two coffees while managing the door, and Jack used that as an excuse to break free from his gaze. “Let me help you with that.”

“Nice to get _some_ help around here.” Emily pointed her sarcasm at Gibbs, who blithely shrugged it off. Handing one cup to Jack and the other to him, she looked at the door. It didn’t take long for her to put two and two together. “The East Side Strangler?” she asked. Before either could reply, she added, “You guys are going to try and solve the East Side Strangler case?”

“‘Try’?” Gibbs asked, sitting down again. 

Emily turned to him. “Sorry, Dick Tracy. You’re going to solve the East Side Strangler case.”

“That’s more like it.”

“Make sure you send the bill to the cops,” she said. “Would be nice to get paid for once. Present company excluded.” She looked at Jack and smiled.

Over his cup, Gibbs frowned. “How’d you know she’s paying?”

Emily snorted. “Please. She might work for the press, but she’s the most respectable person to walk through these doors in ages.” The words hit her ears. “No offense about the ‘press’ part.”

Jack grinned. “None taken.” A thought occurred to her. “Emily, if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“So imagine you’re walking home at night. When would you let someone approach you, close up?”

She gave the question some thought. “I would have to know the person. Or maybe see that they were in trouble.”

“A man?”

“Only if I knew him.”

“You’re not walkin’ home by yourself at night,” Gibbs grumbled.

Both women smiled at the automatic protective response. “It’s hypothetical,” Jack assured him. 

Emily looked at the map again. “You think they all knew their killer.”

“It’s a possibility,” Jack admitted. “But the police weren’t able to connect any of the victims through friends, family or acquaintances.”

“So it would have to be someone they knew, but not necessarily ‘knew’, you know?”

Gibbs blinked. “Somehow, yeah.”

Jack squeezed Emily’s arm. “Thank you.”

“Helpful _and_ supportive, imagine that, Uncle Gibbs.” She smiled at Jack and left.

Once the door closed again, he jerked his chin at the map and lifted his cup. “So we’ve covered what the cops think. What do you think?” She tilted her head at the question. “I read your notes. There’s stuff in there the cops haven’t even dreamed of. I wanna hear it out loud, Dr. Sloane.”

The moniker made her smile, but she made a point of reminding him, “It’s supposition, not fact, Gibbs.”

“Only because we don’t have evidence yet.”

She sat on the nearby couch, took a sip from her mug and contemplated the request. “Based on the age of the girls, I think the killer is around the same age. Young girls are going to automatically be wary of older men, but are easily flattered by their age peers. So a white male between 20 and 30 years old.”

“Why white?”

“Because the girls would never let a black boy approach them at night. That, and in all the cases I’ve studied, men who do these repeated acts of violence are primarily white.” He nodded and she continued. “There’s also something in how he kills them. There’s no immediate violence, but he comes prepared, so the intent _is_ to kill them. He chokes them but the actual method of death is suffocation.”

Gibbs absorbed the words. “He can’t go through with the violence?”

“It’s like he wants to, but he’s torn between two mindsets. He covers their mouths from behind, which dissociates himself from the victim, but then faces them when he kills them. He attempts to choke them but ends up suffocating them.” 

"No sign of rape, no robbery. Why?"

She held up her hands. "Why does any killer do what they do?" His gaze spoke volumes, and she relented. "My opinion? His relationships with women are reflected in how he kills them. He outwardly portrays confidence, but there's an underlying hatred of women."

"It's why he chokes them."

She nodded. "It's also why he faces them; that's a very personal way to kill someone. You're looking into their eyes. But like his confidence, it's overridden by his fear of women. Which is why he attacks them first from behind."

Gibbs pinched between his eyes. "Okay. Young white guy, outwardly confident, inwardly a coward. That's what we're goin' with?"

"You have a better theory?"

He opened his eyes to look at her. "I'm not arguin' with you, Sloane. I just wanna know if that's where we're goin'."

His acceptance of her theory caught her off-guard. "Sorry. I'm just not used to many men agreeing with me."

He shrugged off her apology. "Most men are dumb." He waited for the smile he knew was coming. "And I go where the theory goes. Doesn't matter who came up with it."

She nodded. "Okay. That's the theory we're going with."

His agreement was in his smirk. "Okay. Got a theory on what connects the victims? Who is it they 'know' but don't know?"

Holding her hands up, she admitted defeat. "There wasn't anything they had in common, so no one stands out."

"So who would they all trust?"

"Cops," she said immediately. "Or maybe it's someone they all see everyday and developed an ease that comes with passing familiarity."

"Like an old guy who watches you get your coffee every morning."

The reminder made her roll her eyes. "He's a sweet old man. But yes. Like that. Someone on the bus or subway? I don't know."

He ignored her frustration by downing his coffee, then taking hers and putting it on the desk. "I want you to meet someone."

"I guess I'm done?" She stood and stepped into the jacket he held open for her and pretended to not get drawn into his smirk.

…..


	9. Chapter 9

…..

He pulled the car into a spot near the brick building and when he put it in 'park', she angled her head to look out the window.

"The 56th Precinct."

"They're the ones handling the Strangler case."

"I know. Are we actually going inside?" she asked. "Because I've never been let in."

He grinned at her deadpan delivery. He knew full well the antagonistic relationship between the press and the police. "I find it hard to believe you can't charm your way into anything, Ms. Sloane."

"Oh, listen to you, Mr. Gibbs." They exited the vehicle at the same time, and as she waited for him to come around the car, she said, "No, really, though. They got mad when I uncovered the ticket quota scheme a ring of cops had going on to up their bonuses."

"Only the guilty ones get mad, Jack." He began lightly jogging up the steps.

She followed him without hesitation, despite her doubts. "The problem is, some of the guilty ones still work here." 

He didn't seem too concerned, and he held the big door open for her to enter. 

"You're right," he said as they stepped inside. "I think that's your picture." His chin pointed at the Wanted wall.

She cursed herself for taking the bait, even if it meant seeing him laugh. "Ass."

They approached the front desk and a fresh face with a name tag that read 'J. Templeton' looked up to ask, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said, "lookin' for Sergeant O'Leary."

"Who's looking for him?"

"Tell him Leroy Gibbs is still waitin' on his sandwich."

The young officer's eyes lit up. "Leroy Jethro Gibbs? From Chicago?"

"No, Pennsylvania."

The joke went over the kid's head. "You helped take down Capone. I became a cop because of you!"

Knowing Gibbs' story better than the young man, Jack surreptitiously reached out to brush along his forearm. "He might want your autograph," she whispered.

Her sly remark got the small smirk it had intended and he unclenched his jaw.

Oblivious to the exchange, Templeton quickly came out from behind the raised desk and said, "I'll get him personally, sir!"

Jack's eyebrows went high at the size of the officer. "Jesus, that's a wall." Squeezing Gibbs' arm again, "He's trying."

"Yeah, well, he better not try any harder."

"Well, well, look what the rats dragged in."

Gibbs and Jack turned to the voice. A cop in his 30s strolled into the precinct, silver badge cap under his arm. 

"Hey, Poole," Jack said. "How's the ticket quota running these days? Still skimming off the top?" When he moved towards her, Gibbs stepped forward. Jack waved him off. "At least getting demoted to patrol helps keep the wheel greased, huh?"

Mindful of Gibbs' glare, the cop jabbed his finger at her. "Screw you, Sloane. You got a lotta good men fired."

"They might've been good men, but they were lousy cops."

Poole made a motion to step closer, Gibbs did the same, Jack rolled her eyes, and Templeton chose that moment to return. In a voice that belied his earlier 'Golly-gee!' attitude, he asked, "We got a problem here, Mr. Gibbs?"

Poole scoffed. "'Mr. Gibbs'. This fuckin' mook?"

This time, it was Jack who stepped forward, and it became clear why Templeton was the desk officer; his reactions were instantaneous and he read the scene immediately. With a single step, he moved between her and Poole, though it didn't stop her from craning around the big man and promising, "Say that again and I'll punch your lights out."

Another man came around the corner just in time to catch her warning, and he barked, "Poole!" Catching everyone's attention, he jerked his head to the side. "Still waitin' on those reports from the flasher in Gramercy Park."

Poole glowered but stomped away, and Templeton looked down at a still-simmering Jack.

"We good, Miss?"

"We're good," she replied. "What's the 'J' stand for?"

He smiled. "'Jack'."

"What a great name!" She held out her hand and watched it disappear in his big mitt. "Wow."

The new arrival joined the trio. "Leroy Gibbs," the man said, the warmth clear in his voice. 

The two men embraced and Gibbs said, "Eddie. Been a long time." He knew he was more than partly to blame but tried to pass it on to a well-worn excuse. "Been busy."

Ed glanced at Jack. "I don't blame ya."

She picked up on the assumption. "Oh, he's not, I mean, we're not, you know. _That_."

Ed's eyes twinkled as he looked at Gibbs who said, "Gee, Sloane. Didn't hafta object so quick."

The cop laughed and gestured towards the back of the squad room. "Come to my office. Not so many ears." When they arrived, he closed the door behind them and held out his hand to the two chairs opposite his desk. The leather heaved as he sat. "So what brings you by?"

Gibbs waited for Jack to sit before replying, "What's your read on the Strangler case?"

The direct question caught Ed by surprise. "The Strangler case? You're working the Strangler case?"

"I had-" Jack hesitated for the right word, "an incident that we think might be connected in some way."

Ed's eyebrows shot up. "You attacked?"

"No, no, nothing like that," she assured. "It's an indirect connection, but we think if we can piece together the case, we can solve mine."

He leaned back. "Knowing you two, you probably know more than us. Young guy approaches women from behind with what we figure is chloroform, then strangles them from the front. Though the doc says it's really suffocation."

"Left hand around the neck, right hand over the mouth."

Ed looked at Gibbs. "Exactly right."

Gibbs leaned forward. "Anything tweak your gut about it?"

He shrugged. "Guy had to know the girls before he attacked them, right? I could see one girl getting caught by surprise, but once word of this guy got out, every woman between 18 and 88 went on high alert. Haven't seen a female walking by themselves at dusk in the last month, let alone when it's dark."

Jack pondered the theory. "We couldn't find any connection between the girls beyond where they were attacked."

"I'm just sayin', he must meet them at some point before he attacks them."

Gibbs scratched his jaw with the back of his fingers. "Anyone at the scene that raised suspicion? Any faces that might've looked familiar?"

"Crime scene always attracts the lookie-loos, you know that, Leroy." Seeing that Gibbs was going to wait until he answered, Ed closed his eyes momentarily. "Nothing comes to mind," he said, opening them again. "Same two detectives called in. Osbourne and Grimaldi. Good, smart guys. Pete Cirillo, the crime scene photographer. George Koval's been the coroner since the beginning of time. Your guy, Andy," he looked at Jack. "I mean, same crew. Nothing stood out. I'd suggest asking Pete if he took photos of the crowd, but-" He held out his hands.

Jack nodded at the reminder of the fire. "Did they find how it started?"

"Ah, who knows?" Ed replied. "Some people think it's because the old building was built outta matchsticks, some people think it's convenient that the Rossetti case is on the docket and now the prosecutors don't have the evidence to convict."

Gibbs snorted at the facetiousness in the suggestion. The state had been building a case against the notorious crime family for over a year, only to see it go up, quite literally, in smoke. 

"So what aren't you tellin' us, Ed? What hasn't leaked?"

Ed's shoulders dropped and he lowered his chin. "C'mon, Leroy." His eyes flicked over to Jack, then back to Gibbs.

"She won't say. You got my word."

"And mine," Jack promised.

Steepling his fingers under nose, he contemplated the option, then threw up his hands. "Fine. But this stays right here. I'm not fuckin' around." He paused long enough for his words to settle. "Family members of two of the victims said a piece of jewelry was missing. Katherine Freeman's grandmother said there was a necklace with a small emerald stone that had been passed down in the family. It wasn't in the bag George collected at the scene and it wasn't on her. Debbie Locke's brother said she wore their father's ring on a chain around her neck. Silver class ring with a black stone and a Moody Field inscription. Guess the old man was in the Air Force and didn't make it back. Been trying to get a hold of Andy Previn to see if they're in his photos."

"I need to get in touch with him, too," Jack said. "I'll get some copies made and have them sent over."

"I'd appreciate it." The trio sat in silence, having arrived at the same dead end. "Wish I could help you more."

Gibbs stood, temporarily surrendering. "You can help me by tellin' me where the can is."

Ed grinned. "Got my own," he said, tilting his head to the door in the corner. Once Gibbs left them alone, he turned to Jack. "So."

Jack immediately shook her head. "So, nothing."

He pressed his lips together and hummed. "Uh-huh. Well, take it from me, doll, you could do worse than that mook." The derogatory term was said with affection, and they both laughed.

"What's the story behind the sandwich?" she asked. "He told Templeton to remind you that you still owed him a sandwich."

"Ah." He looked down at his desk, the memory bringing a smile to his face. "You know about Chicago?" She nodded. "I was a patrolman back then. He was a detective. I knew he had an in with Ness and I wanted to be part of that. Hadn't met my lovely wife yet, still being young and stupid." Jack smiled at the self-description. "We'd meet up once a week to see what I'd picked up on the streets. He'd always buy me a sandwich from this little bodega. One day, we were walkin' down the street and this car ran the curb, nearly flattened me. But Leroy pushed me out of the way just in time. Took the bumper to the knee and landed on his hip. I nearly shit myself, thinking I was almost killed, thinking he was killed. Bastard sits up and says, "You owe me a sandwich, Eddie."

Her smile became a laugh. "I see."

"I thought, 'Shit, Capone's put a hit out on me' because I was this secret agent cop on the mean streets of Chicago, yadda yadda-"

"Ended up bein' a little old lady who confused the gas for the brake and lost control of her car."

O'Leary turned to the bathroom door. "Aww, why'd ya have to spoil it? I was trying to impress the lady."

"If it works, let me know; been tryin' to impress her since the day I met her." He held out his hand for Ed's while his words made Jack mute. "I appreciate the info, Eddie. Tell Bev I said 'hey'."

Standing, he said, "You might want to tell her yourself before she comes looking for you."

Gibbs conceded the woman's tenacity with a grin. "We'll do dinner sometime."

"Try to impress this one by then," he said, motioning to Jack with a thumb. "Bev would love to meet her."

…..

They got into the car and Jack declared, "I like him."

Gibbs twisted the key into the ignition. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she mimicked. "But maybe I'm easily impressed." Her hand ran down his arm to his wrist, her touch so soft and warm that he could forgive the teasing wink. "Where to now?"

He checked his watch and was surprised at the time. "You hungry?"

"Famished. Why? You up for more fried chicken?"

"Was thinkin' more like steak."

"Steak? Oh, Mr. Gibbs."

He rolled his eyes at the mock-surprise at the higher priced suggestion. "I got a paying client. My treat."

"Well lead on, Big Spender."

…..


	10. Chapter 10

…..

"Let me guess- this is where you got your face got introduced to the wall."

"That wall right there," he said, pointing to the side alley. Seeing the griminess of the place through her eyes for the first time, he was almost apologetic when he said, "You'll be okay."

She scoffed. "Me? I was more worried about you, Handsome."

They entered the small club that was just getting into the swing of dinner service but still had the quiet that preceded the live band hour. A man looked up from wiping down the bar and jerked his head in recognition. Gibbs did the same before guiding Jack to a booth in the corner. She slid into the seat and he slid into the opposite side. He watched as her eyes scanned the room, saw her expression light up.

"I love it."

The bartender came over with the towel over his shoulder and a smile on his face. "You never cease to amaze me, Gibbs," he said, in obvious reference to Jack. 

"She's my protection for the night," Gibbs quipped. "Jerry, meet Jacqueline Sloane."

The 60 year old raised a bushy eyebrow. "Carl Sloane's kid?" When Jack showed her curiosity through a frown, he said, "My brother called the Sawyer fight."

Jack pieced things together. "You're Jerry Concordia? Your brother's Sammy. Sammy Coco."

"Damn, I haven't heard that nickname in ages. Yep, that's Sammy. Sorry about your old man, Jacqueline. Lemme get ya a drink on the house. If for no other reason than I won't have to worry about this one tonight."

Despite the reminder of her father, the jibe at Gibbs lessened the pain. "I could go with a good whiskey, Jerry."

"You got it, sweetheart. Same for you, Gibbs, I know. How about some food?"

"Steak and potatoes. Rare."

"Steak? You finally got a payin' client?" The fact that it was nearly an exact match to Gibbs' earlier words made Jack laugh and Jerry didn't wait for his reply. "And you?"

"Same, if you can afford it," she asked Gibbs.

He wasn't amused by her playful teasing. "My rate's just gone up." To Jerry, he said, "Give her what she wants."

"Took ya four marriages to figure that one out, eh?" He winked at Jack. "Back in a flash."

She took in more of the room when Jerry left, and glancing over to the small stage, she asked, "Who's the house band?"

"No house band tonight. The Monk's playin' all week."

She blinked. "Thelonious Monk? I thought he lost his cabaret card?" Without it, a performer couldn't play anywhere that served alcohol. 

"He did." Gibbs said it as if it wasn't in direct contrast to the consequence. 

Her eyes finally saw what they had missed. "There are no flyers. They're not advertising his appearance."

"Word'll get around fast enough."

"No kidding." 

"He didn't play the Roost?"

"No. It's much too upstanding to break the law."

Her reply was a mischievous one and Jerry returned in time for Gibbs to tell him, "Jack here's questioning the upstanding nature of your establishment, Jer."

He placed the drinks on the table. "She's a smart girl. Steaks' are on their way."

…..

With dinner enjoyed and the plates cleared, Jack sat back to nurse her whiskey. "You come here often?" His eyebrow raised and she shook her head at the suggestive nature of the question. "You know what I meant. Is this your place?"

He glanced around and realized he'd never given it much thought, but it _was_ his place, his regular spot after the diner to head to when things got tough or he simply needed to wind down. It occurred to him for the first time that maybe he needed to get a hobby. Still, he enjoyed the quiet familiarity of both places, of the easy habit they formed. He didn't want much out of life beyond justice, loyalty and a good whiskey. He looked at the woman at his side and considered how that list might be growing.

He shortened his thoughts to a simple answer. "Yep."

She didn't seem to mind because she nodded. "It's nice. I mean, it's out of the way, in a bad part of town, in a building that looks like it's ready to collapse at any moment, but it's got a certain charm about it." He narrowed his eyes but she pretended to ignore it by having another drink of her whiskey. "So, what did we learn today? About the case?"

He shook his head. "No business here," he said. 

"Sorry?"

"No business here," he repeated. "The diner's fine. But I don't bring work here." He only heard the inference in the words when they left his mouth, and he wasn't sure who was more surprised by it. If he didn't bring work to the club but he had brought her, what did that mean? If his words were a surprise, the fact she followed up on them wasn't.

"You don't bring clients here?"

He frowned at the reminder that she had stepped into his life as a client. "Nope."

She murmured her pleased conclusion. A movement near the stage caught her attention. "You dance?"

"Nope," he repeated, this time with more weight. Her mouth dropped into a pout and he felt compelled to make it go away. "Not to Thelonious Monk."

Her appreciation for his edit was in the way she leaned into his shoulder. "Well, no one _really_ dances to Thelonious Monk. I make no promises if Nat King Cole drops by."

She was soft and warm against his side and the whiskey gently folded the sensation into his lungs and gut. She was so close that when he turned his head, his nose brushed through thick blonde hair. The scent wasn't anything like his harsh citrus shampoo, the lavender inviting a deeper exploration he barely resisted.

"He's next month," Gibbs said against her temple.

She took his joke as a promise, just as he intended. "I'll hold you to it."

The club began to fill up, word of the evening's music entertainment spreading throughout the city. Even on a Tuesday night, it was filling up quickly and Gibbs downed the rest of his drink. "Ready to get out of here?"

"Not one for crowds, huh?"

"Nah, I've just seen him enough times _I_ could probably play the piano parts." 

The hyperbole of the statement made her jaw drop and he let her slap his shoulder as she pulled away to slide out of the booth. He stood alongside her and held her coat open, and when she flipped her hair out of the collar, he turned to the bar and raised his hand.

"Come back any time, Jacqueline," Jerry called out.

She lit up the room with her smile. "I hope so!"

As he guided her to the door, Gibbs hoped the same.

…..


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've come to the end. It has been a heck of a ride for me to write; I hope it's been the same for you to read! Again, lots and LOTS of research went into this one to give you as close to the 1950s tone as I could, and I'm so happy that it's resonated with people. I know it's an odd AU to put Gibbs and Jack in, but you guys have taken it in stride and I really appreciate it. My wife seems to think this would be a good universe for me to write other Slibbs stories in. What do you think?

…..

"It's still early," she said, looking at her watch. "You want to come in for a drink?"

They sat in his car in the shadow of her brownstone, the late evening light leaving a burnt orange glow in the air. He looked out the driver's side window, knowing they were tip-toeing at the fork in the road.

"Probably shouldn't have another if I'm drivin' back to the Kitchen." He knew it was right on the edge of cowardly to steer the choice in her direction, but he knew what he wanted; he just needed to know what _she_ wanted.

"I've got the extra room," she reminded him.

And just like that, she lobbed the ball back into his court, and he almost laughed at how easily she had done it. Yet her return told him everything he needed to know.

"Jack, if I come in for a drink, I'm not sleepin' in the extra room." It wasn't a daring move, it was a fact, and she accepted it as such.

"Oh, thank God." Her relief was palpable and adorable and he knew not to say as much to the daughter of a boxer.

"What will Gladys say?" His blue eyes betrayed his stoic attempt.

"Probably 'Hallelujah!'," Jack quipped. "Come on." She followed her spoken invitation with action, leaning across the space between them to boldly drop a kiss on his lips before opening the car door and stepping out. 

…..

They barely made it inside her apartment before her hands were on him and his mouth was on her. He started with her neck as he felt her hands push off his jacket and heard it hit the floor. Her coat quickly followed and now, with his hands free, he brought them into the blonde tresses that had captivated him at the club. His fedora was tilted haphazardly on his head, and she held onto it when their mouths met, without hesitation, without question. Her moan drew out his and the notes mingled between them, binding them together. His hands sought ways to bring the sound out again, threading through her hair and meeting at her waist, where they drew up to her breasts. It wasn't quite the same timbre that vibrated up her throat when his thumbs brushed across her nipples, but goddamn if it wasn't another note he wanted to add to her sheet music. Her body pressed him against the door with a thud that made her intent clear even as she pulled back to smirk at their haste. His hand curled under her thigh to bring her knee to his waist and he frowned.

"You own a skirt, Sloane?"

All the promises and images that went with the question was returned by her possessively nipping his bottom lip. Taking his hat, she put it on her head as she untangled herself from his hold and stepped back. 

"I know 52nd Street might be too hipster for you, but they've got some great burlesque clubs you might be interested in." She tossed his fedora into his chest and began unbuttoning her blouse as she slowly walked backwards to the bedroom. "I did an article on Club Samoa last year. Might've picked up a few tips?" When she turned, she immediately felt his arm around her waist and his mouth at her ear.

"Show me."

…..

Not only did she show him the tips she'd picked up, but she showed him plenty of her own, and while he had succeeded in getting at least one strained plea out of her to "Don't stop", he was the one who ended up begging for mercy. Eight hours later, he wasn't sure his heart had slowed even as he lay sprawled in a bed that was a damn sight more comfortable than the single mattress his back suffered through on a nightly basis. It had been a long time since he'd woken up in the comfort of soft pillows and warm sheets and the smell of a woman. When his arm flopped to his side, he found out it had also been a hell of a long time since a woman had woken up before him. The space beside him was empty, as it always was, but this time he knew what he was missing.

He flipped the blankets back, swivelled his feet to the floor and inhaled the new morning.

…..

She must have heard him in the bathroom and from there, pieced together his steps until he stepped into the kitchen doorway, because she shot a smile over her shoulder from the stove. 

"I'm making scrambled eggs if you want some. Or do you usually go to the diner?"

It took a moment for the words to get past the visual of her standing in a long-sleeved button up pajama top. And just her underwear. He had always been a leg man, and he thought he must've done something good in his life to have been rewarded with the image. It was a hell of a way to start the morning. He stepped in behind and slid his arm around her waist as he had done the night before, except it now had a familiarity to it that was even more heady than the anticipation of the previous night. It didn't hurt that she sank back into the touch and sighed when his morning stubble scraped along her neck as he peppered it with kisses that may have been more than half-intended to leave a mark.

"Gonna burn the eggs."

"Hmm? Oh!" 

He chuckled in her ear as she frantically stirred the eggs. "Should head back to my place," he told her. "Take a shower, change my clothes."

"You know, you could always leave some clothes here." 

Her attention didn't waver from the pan even if he could feel the realization in her body at making such an offer so soon. The spatula started stirring faster, and he curled his fingers around her wrist to slow it down. It was both sensual and comforting at the same time as was his kiss behind her ear. Reaching forward to turn off the stove, he allowed himself a deep inhale in her hair before he said, "You got coffee to go with those eggs?"

She turned around in his arms and when the teasing kisses became a deeper resolve, she took his words the way he meant them- as a sign that he was going to stick around, not just for the morning but for as long as she wanted. Her hands slid under his white T-shirt, and he flinched when her fingers found the spot between his top two ribs that was particularly sensitive. And based on her smirk, she knew it. He retaliated with a beard burn along her throat that made her shriek in delight.

…..

They agreed on a plan to return to the 4 crime scenes and walk through each of them, working with what they knew. It was a long shot, and they knew the chances of finding something -literally or figuratively- was remote, but Gibbs' gut had no other lead. Jack had a shot in the dark of her own. 

"I'm going to swing by Andy's house," she said over her bacon. 

"We can make a detour on the way to the office."

She turned the coffee cup to and fro by the rim. "Do you mind- do you mind if I take the subway? I just find it helps me think without distractions."

He smirked across the table. "You tellin' me I'm a distraction?"

"Yes," she admitted, happy to see his reaction. "In the best possible way, of course."

"Jack, do whatever you gotta do. I need to stop at the diner anyway. Elaine gets nervous when I don't show up for a day."

She stood and stroked his cheek before collecting their dirty dishes, thankful for his understanding. "She's sweet."

He downed his coffee and joined her at the sink where he rinsed the cup and kissed her temple. "She's gonna start expecting you, too."

It was his way of including her in his life and she silently accepted it by lifting her hand to his ear to pull him close. Against his lips, she asked, "What do you think she'll say? About us?"

A pleased growl rolled up his throat at the word. "Probably 'Hallelujah'."

It was a repeat of her own words about Gladys and she laughed at his quickness. "I should start a choir."

…..

Once Gibbs dropped her off at the subway station and he was assured that Edward Vernon really was a 60-year old man across the street, she dropped a kiss on his jaw, only to be pulled back in for deeper goodbye. She was left standing in a daze while he got an enthusiastic thumbs up from the senior before she shook her head and dashed down the steps into the concrete tunnel. She didn't have to wait long for the next train, and she jostled her way onto a car with the rest of the morning rush. The ride into the city was above ground and she always savoured the view. Then, when the trip returned under ground, she closed her eyes and let her mind wander. It mostly always went to whatever she was working on, though she was having a hard time clearing her head of anything other than the man she left at the station. 

The subway wasn't the only thing moving fast- never had she gone from friendly rivalry to flirtation to sleeping with someone so quickly. And had it been anyone other than Jethro Gibbs, it might have raised some alarms. But the man was loyal and trustworthy in a way that allayed any fears. He was safe and that was attractive as hell. She shook her head and smiled at herself. 

_Get your head in the game, Jacqueline._

The car's soft rolling and her quiet insistence brought her thoughts back to the case and a soft frown line between her eyes. On top of the roadblocks in the Strangler case, they were no closer to solving her own mystery than they were the morning she arrived in his office. No matter how hard she wracked her brain or tried to jog her memory, she couldn't dissipate the fog or sharpen the images of what happened. Her mouth turned down in frustration, her gut telling her if she could only remember, she might solve two puzzles in one.

The announcer called out the next stop, pulling her out of her thoughts. It was the connecting station to get her to Andy Previn's house, and she stood as the train rolled into the station.

…..

"Just coffee," he said, sliding into a stool by the diner bar.

Elaine raised an eyebrow while bringing him a ceramic cup. "Should I be jealous? Some other diner getting your business?" The smirk in her voice told him she was already halfway to knowing the truth.

"No other diner, Elaine."

"Mmmm," she murmured, pretending to work out the clues. "A reporter, maybe?"

"Elaine-"

"Don't 'Elaine' me, Handsome. I've been waiting almost a decade for a woman to put a smile on your face besides me. I like her. Don't mess it up."

He blinked at her gentle onslaught. "You met her one time."

"Twice. And I didn't need the second time to know she's salt. Head on her shoulders and a beautiful one at that. Seems smart as a whip. And she makes you smile. You're smiling right now." He could only shake his head, knowing it was true. "What'd I say? Don't mess it up."

He knew trying to stare her down was a lost cause, so he reached to his back pocket to pay for the coffee. "Damn it," he muttered.

"What's wrong?"

"I forgot my wallet-" He caught himself, having yet to fully admit to spending the night, "-at Jack's." There was no sense hiding the truth and anyway, it felt good to put it out in the open.

Elaine patted his hand. "You can get me next time you come in. But you better not come in alone." She left him with that stern warning before moving down the bar to serve the newest customer.

…..

The heavy door opened just as Jack was about to ring the bell. 

"Oh!" a woman exclaimed.

"Wow!" Jack put her hand over her heart. "Sorry about that, Mrs. Previn."

The woman frowned. "Mrs. Schuster," she corrected. "You must have a short memory." Seeing Jack's confused head tilt, she said, "I saw you on Friday and corrected you then. I got remarried last year to Joseph Schuster, the broadway director." It was clear the woman loved revealing the connection in the way her chin lifted, waiting for Jack's response.

"Right," Jack said, immediately distracted by the information that gave a new piece to her timeline. "I'm sorry. I've got so much going on at work."

She seemed appeased because she said, "I know, poor Andrew is running around ragged because of this wretched Strangler case. He barely sleeps."

Jack nodded. "Yeah, it's crazy." Her eyes flickered down to a chain around Mrs. Schuster's neck, and with a clenched jaw and a pasted on smile, she noted, "That's a lovely necklace."

She touched the gold that housed an emerald. "Isn't it beautiful? Andrew gave it to me last week. Just out of the blue! He said he'd been saving up for months."

"Yes," Jack said, fighting the bile that threatened to creep up her throat. She realized she had been standing silent for too long when the woman politely cleared her throat. "Oh! Sorry. I was hoping to catch Andy before he went to work but I can just wait until I see him there."

A voice from inside the house rooted Jack's feet to the ground and she immediately began playing out scenarios in her head. 

"Who is it, Mom?"

"It's your co-worker, Jacqueline Sloane," the woman replied.

"Hey, Andy," Jack said when the young man stepped into view. "I wanted to talk to you about some photos related to the Strangler case, but we can go over it at work."

"No, no," Mrs. Schuster insisted. "I'm off to see Joseph. He's doing some auditions for his new play and said _maybe_ I could find my way into a role." Her tone gave no doubt that she would be given a part, and her expression turned dreamy. She allowed herself a moment to savour the idea before saying to Jack, "Come in. You two can do whatever it is you newspaper people do. I won't be back until the end of the day." She kissed her son on the cheek. "Have a good day, Andrew."

Jack's mind was racing as she watched her descend the steps. Putting on the most neutral face, she turned back to Andy. "Really, it can wait."

"Nah, come on in," he said, stepping aside. 

Whether he knew or not what she suspected, Jack knew the die was cast.

…..

It was easier going into Brooklyn after 9 than it was getting out of it before 8, and in no time at all, he was outside her brownstone again. Turning off the ignition, he looked through the passenger window up to the brick building and marvelled how it had only been 12 hours earlier that he had pulled up with Jack. He could still feel her mouth against his. Jamming a toothpick between his lips, he stepped out of the car and lightly jogged up the steps. It wasn't until he was inside the foyer that he realized he had no way of getting into her apartment. Quietly berating himself, he was considering his options when a door on the main floor opened.

"Hello?"

He turned to the voice. "Hey, Gladys."

The senior shuffled closer. "Do I know you?"

Remembering what Jack had said about the woman's memory, Gibbs gently explained, "I was here the other day with Jack. Jacqueline Sloane."

Her gaze narrowed. "Blue Eyes."

He grinned. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Caught any perps lately?"

Her penchant for the latest TV detective lingo made him chuckle. "No, Ma'am. But we're workin' on it."

Her nod was an approving one. "Is that why you're here? You two working a case?"

"Actually, Gladys, I forgot my wallet. Maybe you can do me a favour- I don't suppose Jacqueline ever left you a spare key?"

She might have been suspicious of any other man, but he charmed her with a smile and she offered one back. "I may have an extra one in my kitchen. Wait right here."

She was gone so long he was beginning to wonder if she had lost her train of thought on the way to her kitchen, but just when he was about to consider a second option, she emerged, and he realized the delay. She was balancing a plate of cookies on a large manilla envelope, and he rushed to her side to help. 

"Lemme take those."

"You should- they're for you. I made them this morning." She patted his cheek. "Here's the key. Bring it back when you're finished. Leave the plate with Jacqueline; I know she'll bring it back later." She looked down at the envelope in her hand. "Now, why did I bring this?" A flicker of memory crossed her face. "Oh, I remember! Jacqueline gave this to me on Friday night. Or maybe it was Thursday? It was Thursday," she said with confidence. "I was watching _Treasury Men in Action._ Do you watch it?"

"No, Ma'am, but I do stay up for _Dragnet_."

Her eyes lit up. "I do, too! Most of the time, but they show it so gosh darn late. A little old lady like me can barely keep her eyes open."

He smiled even as he was trying not to rush her to get to the point. "The envelope?"

"Yes! Jacqueline dropped it off on Thursday night and asked me to keep it until she came for it." Leaning in conspiratorially, she whispered, "I think she might have forgotten." She pulled back with a wink. "Put it somewhere she won't see straight away and she'll think she found it without our help."

"You're brilliant, Gladys," he said, pressing a kiss against her forehead. 

A red blush went across her cheeks. "You're lucky I'm married, young man. Now get going. Don't forget to bring back the key!"

…..

She had an eerie sense of deja vu that she tried to keep hidden from her face. Five minutes ago, she would've sworn she had never been in the house, but things were slowly starting to piece together. Especially when he asked-

"Can I get you something to drink?"

The hair rose on the back of her neck, but she forced herself to calmly reply, "No, thanks."

They stood in the small hallway and she measured her exits- the main door to her left and a back door she could see straight through the kitchen. She also measured her opponent and felt confident his slight frame was no match for her boxing skills. At least, that's what she was hoping.

"So," he began, "you're here for photos on the Strangler case?"

"Yep. I was just going over it again and realized I didn't have any. Photos, I mean. And with the evidence department burning, well-"

"Yeah, that was a real shame, huh?"

She didn't know whether he was being serious or sinister. "Yeah. All those cases that will be thrown out of court because of the fire. All those criminals going free. Guess whoever set it didn't think that far ahead."

"I heard it was a mouse in the electrical wiring." She hummed at his reply and he shrugged. "Anyway, I've got copies. They're not the police photos, but they're probably better. Cirillo can't take a picture to save his ass. Come on, they're downstairs."

She wasn't sure how to sidestep the invitation, so she followed him into the basement.

…..

Any thought he might have had about feeling awkward for walking into her apartment alone disappeared the minute the door opened. Even without her there, it felt welcoming and warm and he'd already gotten used to the normalcy it gave him. After closing the door, he placed the plate and envelope on the table and went to the bedroom. He smiled in the doorway- her father's discipline as a boxer clearly transferred to Jack, because the bed was pristinely made, a sight wildly different than the one he saw a few hours earlier. The smile grew into a larger grin when he realized at some point during the night, his wallet had been knocked from the bedside table onto the floor. His knee gave its usual protest as he bent, but he stood again without difficulty, slipped the wallet into his back pocket, and returned to the kitchen. 

The cookies and the envelope conspired to lure his attention to the table. The feel of the envelope led him to believe they were pictures and the cookies were his favourite. Calculating how long it would take him to get back to the city, along with how long it might take Jack to get to the office, he figured he'd have time to take a quick look and a quick bite. With that in mind, he went to the fridge, took out the pint of milk and helped himself to a heavy glass before bringing the pair to the table and dropping into a chair. A cookie was stuffed into his mouth while he poured the cold milk until it reached the top. Half of it got downed before he reached for the envelope and pulled out the contents. 

At first, he nonchalantly leafed through them, sifting one from the front to the back in lazy succession. It didn't take long for him to piece together the information; he had seen the photos before- they were the same the Post used in their articles about the Strangler. It was only when he got to the middle of the stack that his interest became sharper. They were similar pictures but they weren't exactly the same. 

They were the crime scene photos.

Somehow, unbeknownst to Jack, she had gotten ahold of copies, fortuitously before the evidence room fire. Gibbs' brow furrowed. 

_So why did she give them to Gladys?_

If Gladys' recollection was to be believed -and her memory of the TV show made it more plausible- Jack had given her the envelope on Thursday. Based on Jack's own memory, whatever happened to her played out on Saturday. He pinched the bridge of his nose. There was little doubt now that the Strangler and what happened to Jack were connected. She must have found out something that brought her closer to solving the mystery, but something she felt she needed to hide, either for her own protection or to buy her time to follow the lead. Something in the photos. He moved the milk and plate to a chair and stood to lay out the photos on the table, placing Andy Previn's copies on the left and Pete Cirillo's on the right. It only took him a moment to see what Jack must've seen.

He bolted out of the brownstone so quickly, he forgot to put away the milk.

…..

By her calculations, she made two mistakes that ended up getting her in the predicament she was in. The first was letting Andy out of her sight, under the pretense of him needing to grab the photos from the homemade dark room in the corner of the basement. The second was letting her curiosity get the upper hand, which led to her scrutinizing the photos he had clothes-pinned on a line in the opposite corner. She was certain she recognized one of the victims in a photo, but he'd quickly come up behind her with a foul smelling cloth over her mouth before she could ask. 

_Your first mistake was coming down the stairs, Jacqueline._

She tilted her head back and forth at her brain's silent rebuke. 

_Okay, three mistakes._

Despite the danger she now found herself in, she took some measure of satisfaction in the cut above his eye, delivered by her headbutt before she had stumbled and fallen to the floor under the power of the chloroform. He had hoisted her up to a chair and bound her arms behind her, and in the 10 minutes that had passed, had done nothing but pace the room. Though things still weren't entirely clear, she was piecing enough together to draw a damn good picture.

But she had to ask, "Why didn't you kill me?"

Andy stopped. Hearing the past tense, he knew she wasn't referring to the now. "I like you, Sloanie."

The answer was so honest that it was easy to overlook the fact that four other women didn't get the same affection. "What was it about Katherine Freeman you didn't like?" She purposely used the girl's name to humanize her and she saw by Andy's reaction it hit the mark even as he tried to hide it.

He began pacing again. "You know what I like about you?" he asked, ignoring her question with one of his own. "I like that you're really good at what you do, but you never looked to get famous for it. You're good and you want credit where it's due, but you never took shortcuts to make people notice you."

Jack frowned as she tried to wade through his words. He was adamant in his respect for her lack of ambition beyond being a good reporter, but she couldn't' figure out how it factored into his judgement of the four women. It was only when she allowed herself to look past the victims that she saw an opening.

"Like your mother, you mean?" His pacing increased. "Oh my God, is that it? That's all this has been about? Your mommy issues?"

"Shut up."

She felt the chair's high back press into her shoulder blades as she let her head fall back momentarily as she worked out the puzzle. "She left your father to marry a Broadway director. And you cried about it, then got mad because she started paying more attention to him than to you. Is that it? And four young women had to pay the price for your tantrum." His backhand came so quickly, it surprised them both. She knew she should shut up, should stroke his ego, do anything it took to keep herself alive long enough to buy time for someone to find her. But her mouth didn't always listen to her brain. Tamping down her fear, she tried to hide the waver in her voice. "I got hit harder by a 6-foot beanpole yesterday morning." Before he could retaliate a second time, her brain shook her by her ears and tried again. "What happened, Andy?" The shift from taunt to compassion caught him off-guard and he stepped back. He clenched his fists over his head at the question, and when he didn't reply, she tried another tack. "Can you at least tell me what happened to _me_?"

With folded arms, he said, "You came by Friday but I wasn't here. Mom told me later. And I knew you knew. Somehow, you knew. You're a damn good reporter, Sloanie."

Her eyes narrowed at a memory fragment that flashed across her mind. "I had pictures of the crime scene." Hearing the words come out of her mouth, she shook her head. "I had them this whole time."

He answered with his own head shake. "No. I searched your place high and low and I didn't find them."

"You came over to my house Saturday afternoon," she said, things starting to emerge from the fog. Remembering her aversion to his earlier offer, she said, "You put something in my drink."

"Flunitrazepam," he replied. "My dad's a pharmacist." He shrugged away the guilt. "It's for insomnia, but enough of it can cause anterograde amnesia."

"And you gave me more than enough."

"I just wanted you to forget whatever it was you figured out about me," he said.

"It was the jewelry. There wasn't any jewelry in your photos." The statement surprised her as much as it did him. When her eyes flicked to the hand that had run through his hair, he self-consciously twisted the silver ring with his thumb. "Did you set fire to the evidence room?"

"You know," he said, his avoidance answering the question, "those girls didn't want anything to do with me until I told them my step-dad was a Broadway director. Then suddenly, I was the most interesting guy they'd ever met."

Had he not killed 4 innocent girls, she might have had some sympathy for the sadness in his voice. As it stood, she wasn't sure she wasn't going to be a fifth. "So what now, Andy?"

Any reply he was going to give was interrupted by the doorbell.

…..

The door opened and it took everything in him to not grab the young man by the throat. Instead, his lips did their best to proximate a smile. "Hey. Wasn't sure I had the right house," Gibbs said. "You're Andy Previn, right?"

"Sure. I mean, yeah." He snapped his fingers. "You're Detective Gibbs. I saw you with Sloanie at the fire yesterday. What can I do for you?"

Gibbs shrugged and didn't hide the fact he was looking over Previn's shoulder into the house. "Just wonderin' if you'd seen Sloanie today?" The nickname would've made him laugh at the thought of her reaction if he wasn't too caught up trying to imagine exactly where she was at that moment. 

Previn shook his head. "No. Haven't seen her since yesterday. Just heading to work now. I can tell her you were looking for her if I see her."

Nervousness ribboned his tone, but the words signalled a quick end to the conversation. Gibbs nodded and extended his hand. Previn returned the gesture.

When their hands clasped, Gibbs gave a hard squeeze. "Nice ring." 

"Th-thanks." 

He made a move to pull his hand away, but Gibbs held firm, his eyes cold blue steel as they bored into Previn. The grip tightened and tightened and Gibbs found a measure of satisfaction in seeing the young man wince. In a desperate move, Previn slammed the door between them, effectively catching Gibbs' forearm in the process and he reflexively let go, but not before wedging a foot over the threshold. Startled by the jolt, Previn bolted back into the house with Gibbs hot on his heels. The chase was short lived when Gibbs lunged for him halfway to the back door, and the two crashed to the floor. As he turned Previn over, a flailing elbow connected with his nose, but the stars that came with the impact didn't dampen his intent. 

With his knees on either side of Previn's hips, and his left hand around his neck, Gibbs leaned over and gritted, "Where is she?" When the answer didn't come as quickly as he wanted, his hand squeezed tighter and his voice went lower. "I'm not gonna ask you again. Where is-" A loud thump somewhere beneath them caught Gibbs' attention. In an instant, he was on his feet and yanked Previn up by his collar. "You try to run and I'll break your ankles. Then I'll work the rest of my way up, you got that?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Where's the basement?"

…..

Previn's body hit the bottom when Gibbs all but threw him down the flight of stairs. The padlock on the door shot a phantom pain to Gibbs' knee at the thought of having to kick it in, but his brain came up with a better solution. Roughly searching Previn's pockets, Gibbs dug out a key and was thankful it fit the lock. Though he was encouraged by the sound that had drawn him to the basement in the first place, he inhaled a deep breath through his nose to prepare himself for whatever might be on the other side. The hinges squeaked as he pushed it open, and when he saw her, he immediately knew what had created the sound. She had toppled the chair over into a small table that was nearby, causing both to crash to the floor. She couldn't see who had entered the room and hadn't moved since he came in. With a terse, "Give me a reason," to the moaning pile of limbs at the foot of the stairs, Gibbs rushed across the room.

The second he came into view, she began making sounds under the duck tape that covered her mouth and glancing towards the door. He recognized her fear and promptly put it to rest.

"I know, Jack. We got 'im." Carefully, he righted the chair and knelt in front of her. As he reached for the edge of the tape, he cocked an eyebrow. "Slow or fast?" She mumbled a one-syllable reply and he said, "I hope that was 'fast'." Without breaking eye contact, he tried to gentle what was about to come with a soft look before he yanked off the tape in one quick pull.

"Ow."

Despite the surroundings, he couldn't help but smile at her automatic response. With a quick flick of his wrist, he unlocked his knife, reached around her and cut her hands free. He welcomed the feel of them when they framed his face and brought his mouth to hers. Her lips, tender from the tape, must have protested at the contact, but he was selfishly glad she pushed through, because once they touched his, the reality of the situation -the reality of what might have been- hit him in the gut and he might have been a little less gentle in his reciprocation. But she didn't seem to mind, ratcheting up her reaction in response to the adrenaline that was coursing through them both. A call from upstairs tapped the brakes on the moment.

"G?"

"Downstairs, Ozzy," Gibbs called out over his shoulder. 

"How'd you know?" Jack asked against his cheek.

"Gladys gave me some cookies. And an envelope full of photos from the crime scenes."

It took a minute for the information to sink in, but when it did, she said, "I'm a genius."

He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "That you are, Sloane, that you are."

Ned Osbourne appeared in the doorway. "Everything okay here?"

Gibbs' eyes didn't leave Jack. "S'all good, Ozzy."

"Alright. Me an' Grim'll take this dirtbag down to the station. We're gonna need a statement from the both of ya, but take your time. We'll send the crime scene guys over in 5."

When the cop manhandled Previn up the stairs, Gibbs kissed her again. She reciprocated momentarily, but when he felt a slight push, he pulled back. She brushed her hands down his cheeks and traced his lines with her fingertips. His brow furrowed. "You okay?"

She seemed to struggle for an answer but settled on, "Your nose. Again."

…..

Epilogue

They had gone to the station and given a statement, and by the time it was all over, he was nearly holding her up, the adrenaline dying off and leaving her exhausted. Still, she had enough energy to demand he take her to The Post. She told him it was her job to write an article, not just to get the scoop on rival papers, but to stand up for the place that had given her everything. It would forever be known as the paper that employed a killer, and she felt it was her duty to defend it. Her loyalty was something he was more than familiar with himself, so he had stood at her desk, a silent sentry while she typed furiously on her Bluebird, in the hopes of getting the article done for the 5 o'clock edition. His newly broken nose and icy stare gave her the uninterrupted time she needed.

That was an hour and one frantic love-making session ago. He had barely guided her into the apartment when she roughly pushed him against the door, the hiss he let out between his teeth at the jarred impact against his nose going unheeded by the single-minded goal that seemed to be getting him out of his clothes as quickly as possible. He knew the adrenaline that had protected her from fully dealing with the events of the morning had been replaced by a reminder of her own mortality and she was looking for an assurance that she was still alive. It was an assurance he had no problem offering, broken nose be damned. He had gotten her out of her clothes nearly as quickly as she had shed him of his, and they had ransacked the pristinely made bed for the second time in less than 24 hours.

He had barely caught his breath when they heard a knock on the door, and though he reached for her wrist when she rolled out of bed to answer it, he was shushed by her kiss and rewarded by the vision of her slipping on his white undershirt. It was nearly the same image he'd been given that morning, except this time, the shirt hem landed higher than her pajama top, showcasing the tantalizing curve of her ass in the stark white panties.

"Eyes up, Cowboy," she scolded, even as she winked. "I bet that's Henry's gopher bringing me the early copy."

She was only gone for a moment, but he took the time to breathe in the room and let it settle in his lungs and in a place in his heart. He nearly scoffed out loud at his prose but it caught in his throat at her return. The shirt looked even better from the front, the fit on him becoming a loose garment on her, where the neckline scooped below her collarbone and the fabric hung tantalizingly from her breasts. She smirked at his instant reaction.

"Good thing I didn't let Jimmy get a better look if that's anything to go by," she said, purposely looking at his groin.

"Damn right 'good thing'," he growled, pulling her to his lap when she was in arm's reach. 

She laughed at his faux possessiveness even as she was warmed by it. Her legs straddled his thighs and she rested the newspaper against his chest. "'Strangler Foiled by The Post!'" she announced like a newsie. "They really need me to write the headlines, too."

"Pretty sure 'Daring Writer Brings Down a Killer and Saves the City' is too long." He punctuated his pronouncement with light kisses along her jaw.

"You _are_ the most charming man," she said. "But I was thinking more like, 'Daring Duo Stifle Strangler'." 

He hummed his reply but his focus was clearly on other things, and it didn't take investigative skills to see where it was. She felt a heat spread across her skin at his unabashed want, and she reflexively shifted down harder into his lap. It elicited a groan from his chest and she followed the rumble up his throat with her tongue until she caught the gravelled breath as it escaped his lips. His hands slid under the shirt, brought it up over her head and tossed it into the corner of the room. In his haste to reconnect with her lips, their noses bumped and he clenched his jaw. She shook her head even as she placed her hands on either side of his face. As she had done at his office in what seemed like a lifetime ago, she rested her thumbs against his nose, except this time, he was ready for it, or so he thought. Just as she cracked the nose back into place, she ground down on his lap, and he'd never experienced such a combination of pain and pleasure.

"There," she said, "handsome as ever. But that's the last time I'm doing that." Her words weren't an ultimatum, but of a promise that, so long as she was around, she would make sure it would never happen again. 

As much as he loved her for it, he couldn't help but quip, "'Daring Duo', huh? I'm guessin' it might just be the beginnin'. Dollface."

…..

-end


End file.
